


Till There's Nothing Left to See

by backtopluto



Series: mcyt american revolution au [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: "the mortifying ordeal of being known", Alternate Universe - American Revolution, Enemies to Lovers, Historical Accuracy, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religion, dream is a cabbage farmer, george is quartered at his house, heterochromia george, it's a mess, name truthing, or i do my best i took some creative liberties, spy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:08:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27012541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backtopluto/pseuds/backtopluto
Summary: George’s jaw stiffens, he knows what Dream means by it, and it’s more personal than merely attacking the King, a faceless man across the sea. In this town, anyone with a red coat has privileges the colonists couldn’t even dream of.A long, long moment passes. The darkness outside settles. Slowly George says, “You want me gone.”
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: mcyt american revolution au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2131512
Comments: 384
Kudos: 1518





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fandom was in need of historical aus and i took it upon myself to remedy this. also please read the tags!! It is the 1700s 
> 
> If any of the people mentioned in this fic express discomfort with shipping or fanfiction this will be taken down! i mean no disrespect  
> -  
> Loosely based off Turn: Washington's Spies

**Autumn 1776**

**Long Island, New York Colony**

The news arrives the same day the muggish New England heat is chased back by a bitter autumn wind. The warmth sloughs away under the crunch of leaves, and the water in Long Island harbor turns cold enough to freeze a man in an hour’s time. 

A small fishing boat, barely large enough to sit two people, is dragged to the shore. The man pulling it is soaked to his waist, cursing under his breath with enough vexation to make a drunkard scowl. His arms are sore, and there’s a cut above his left eyebrow. The blood is dried now, but earlier in the night it had dripped down his face and obscured his sight. 

He had been running on nothing but a cocktail of adrenaline, desperation, and some sense of Patriotic duty that he wasn’t sure came from anything but a grudge for the King. With the adrenaline gone, and a long night of rowing home from Connecticut, he wasn’t sure he’d ever been so tired in his life. 

Each step is laborious as he drags the rowboat into the reeds, feeling like he’s pulling a mountain behind him instead. He grabs a small bag of coins from the hull, then covers the boat with a tarp the color of murky water. He throws on a few sticks and leaves from the bank for extra camouflage, before wading out of the river with a curse. The early morning wind goes straight through his soaked pants and he shivers. He imagines the warmth of a cup of coffee and his own bed, and it’s enough for him to put one foot in front of the other. 

Dream takes the back way home, so as to avoid being seen by any townspeople or soldiers. The woods are quiet, the leaves just beginning to turn varying shades of yellow and orange. He startles a doe, who looks at him with wide brown eyes before disappearing into the thick foliage. He heaves a sigh. What he wouldn’t do to leave this all behind, the war and the deception and the constant feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, that every step he takes is on a pane of glass that gets increasingly thinner as his luck runs dry. 

The path through the woods leads him all the way to his farm. It’s a small thing of about fifty acres, on soil dry enough for cabbages and nothing more. The woods ring all around it, and a small farm house sits on the edge of the treeline. 

It isn’t much, but he earned it himself. He had crawled all the way up the coast from Florida and found this godforsaken town, the farm had been offered to him by a dying widow with no sons, and wasn’t that the American dream? A cabbage farm on the coast of Connecticut? 

Dream unlocks his front door with a key from his pocket, and locks it behind him. He rubs at his eyes, using the last dregs of energy to light a fire to chase out the cold. He scratches his cat behind the ears, before changing into dry clothes and cleaning out the cut above his eyebrow. He cringes at his reflection in the mirror, at the new scar on his face. 

He slumps onto his bed, the watery-morning sunlight just beginning to sift over the world. The light stretches out the shadows of the trees and the cabbages, which he will have to harvest when he wakes. The thought makes his arms ache in protest. This was the last time he made the journey from Connecticut to Long Island, he tells himself. The last time he plays pigeon for the Continental Army. 

The sack of coins in his pocket begs a different response. 

Dream is stirred awake by a harsh knocking on his door. His eyes snap open like the crack of a bullet, bright sunlight from the open window attacking his gaze. He scrunches his eyes shut. Maybe the person at his door will go away, assume he’s out and far from home. 

The knock comes again, harsher this time, followed by an accented voice, “In the name of His Majesty we demand this door be opened at once.” 

Shit. 

Then he’s flying down the stairs, tripping over his own two feet and yanking open the door to find a British soldier in a wig staring right back at him. He raises an unimpressed brow and Dream smiles crookedly. 

“Was the pounding on the door strictly necessary?” Dream questions. 

“Why were you asleep at eleven in the morning on a Wednesday?” He asks without missing a beat. 

“Ah you know, I did some harvesting last night instead of now. I lost track of time.” 

Captain Soot glances over at the field with only two harvested rows. “Is that so?” 

Dream nods. “Yes that is so.” 

He raises his brow again. “Very well. I suppose I didn’t come to question your farming methods.” 

“Is there another dinner which you would like me to attend?” 

“No.” Wilbur removes his cap and holds it to his chest. “I need a favor.” 

Dream’s eye twitches. He was so tired of running favors. “Should we come inside for this?” 

He shakes his head. “I’ll only be a moment. I need to quarter a soldier, and the other available homes in the area are… less than desirable.” 

Dream’s eye twitches again. The glass under his feet shatters. He’d been testing his luck too long, draining it and draining it and now he’d gone and lost it. God must be laughing at him. 

Still, he thinks of the Church pews which had been ripped out in order to make room for bunking soldiers, and the tents set up in town square. Nearly every house had been requisitioned to a soldier, the only reason Dream’s had not was because he was in good graces with Captain Soot and the magistrate. Evidently, that only got him so far. 

“Quartered?” He repeats dumbly. 

“I know it’s a lot to ask, and if I’m being honest Dream, this isn’t a favor. This is an order. Your home will be quartered to my officer by the end of tomorrow evening.” 

His mind spins, spiraling in a thousand different directions. His thoughts are fleeting, each more desperate and panicked than the last. He stares at Wilbur. This isn’t the first instance he’s wanted to punch the imperial bastard, but it’s certainly the closests he has come to actually doing so. 

“Wilbur-” 

“That’s Captain Soot, to you.” He says, returning his three-point hat to his head. “You’ve done alot for me these past two months, and I am ordering this of you now. You swore your loyalty to the crown, did you not?” 

He swallows the bile in his throat. Unfortunately, he doubted he would ever be able to shake the memory of him standing in the town square, his hand on the Bible and the other in the air as he swore to devout his life to the king in front of the entire town. 

“Yes sir, I did.” 

“Then you will house my officer tomorrow evening, yes?” 

Jesus, the things he did for this cause. “Yes, sir. I would love nothing more than to serve the crown in whatever way I can.” 

Maybe that was laying it on thick, but the hard set of Wilbur’s shoulders loosen. The stern expression on his face is briefly wiped away towards something more personal as he gives Dream the barest of smiles. “I value your loyalty, Dream. I assure you my officer is nothing short of staunch politeness.”

Dream tips his head. “Of course, sir.” 

Wilbur returns his cap to his head before withdrawing a pocket watch from his coat pocket. “I must be off now, I will see you again in the coming weeks. There is much to discuss.” 

Dream nods, and with that Wilbur returns to his horse before disappearing down the path through the woods, the one better marked, which leads into town. Dream watches him go, scarcely allowing a breath until the sound of horse hooves has long faded. 

He slumps against the doorframe, runs a hand over his face. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? As if sneaking around wasn’t hard enough, now he was expected to do so with a British officer in his home. A light breeze blows over the treetops and through his home. The fire he had lit earlier is now a smoldering pile of ash. 

Patches winds between his feet and looks at him with wide yellow eyes. He bends down and scratches behind her ear, mumbling, “What am I gonna do now?” 

She blinks up at him. Her eyes hold no answers. 

Dream shakes his head. “What am I supposed to tell Sapnap?” 

Instead of doing anything about the situation, he harvests his cabbage. Not for the first time, he considers that running a farm with no additional help was probably not his greatest idea, but as he pulls the heads from the ground, snipping off the roots with a dull blade, he works quicker than expected. 

He is halfway down the third row, his arms burning and shaking as he twists the head of cabbage roughly from the dirt. He imagines a lobsterback staring at him from the porch, wearing a stupid powedered wig and a blood-red coat. Even in his own home, there is no escape from British rule, no sense of privacy or a life outside this war. Dream takes his knife from his pocket and slashes the roots from the cabbage, before pitching it into a rusting wheelbarrow. 

He will have to make the trip to Long Island again tonight, and even then there is no guarantee that Sapnap, his courier and long-time friend, will even be at Throw’s Point. He was there last night, when a meeting had already been arranged, he would have no reason to believe Dream already had more news for him. 

He grasps another head of cabbage, digs his fingers deep into the cold soil, twists and yanks like it isn’t a head of cabbage but the head of the king. 

Before he leaves, Dream takes everything in his house that could so much as be slightly incriminating- his copy of _Common Sense_ , a rebel newspaper, stolen letters and orders from the magistrate and Major, a bright blue scarf, a notebook he’d filled with meeting times and signal codes- he takes it all and buries it in a box on the far edge of the cabbage field. He covers the spot with dried grass and wet leaves. He stares at the spot for a long time, rubs a hand across his face. Everything he stood for- buried in the ground. It shouldn’t have been hard, it was a practical, thought-out move after all, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that everyday he did the same to himself.

Two months he had been a spy. Two months of lying to everyone, to his town, to the magistrate, to the British. Even Sapnap, his best friend and the man who had dragged him into this, didn’t always hear the full story. Dream tended to leave pieces out of his story, where he got the information and how he went about it. Dream crossed lines he wasn’t sure he wanted Sapnap knowing. 

Now, he was going to have to lie even more. Lies came as easily as breathing now. He was good at it. He had been told when he joined the circle that he had a trustworthy face. He was going to have to pray that it got him further than it had already. 

That night, he doesn't go to Sapnap like he should. Dream can’t bring himself to tell his friend, or maybe he’s just tired. The bags under his eyes run deep and permanent. Everytime he goes into town, they tell him to get some sleep before inviting him in for a drink. Dream always says yes. Dream always comes back with something to write a letter about. 

That night he stares at his ceiling and imagines a British soldier on the other side of the wall. 

He goes to town the next day with a bundle of cabbages to sell. He takes some of the coins he had earned from smuggling information (Sapnap said he should do it for free, but he always handed over the shillings). He didn’t bring enough to arouse suspicion, just enough to buy bread and sugar, a packet of coffee. He tries not to think about the British soldier who he’ll find in his house tonight, but his eyes linger on every one that passes, wondering if they’re the one. 

Dream is just leaving town, his bundle filled with the groceries instead of cabbages, when someone calls his name and he stops dead in his tracks. As if his luck couldn’t get any fucking worse today. The hair on the back of his neck raises as a set of footsteps approaches from behind. There’s no point in going, the magistrate will find him wherever he goes. 

He puts on his best fake smile and turns around. The magistrate stops a few feet before him, wearing dark clothes and a wide-brim hat, the sort that Puritans wore. 

“Dream.” The magistrate says, his voice rough and deep and his eyes dark with distrust. 

Dream tips his head at him. “Schlatt.” 

Schlatt looks him up and down, like he’ll be able to find something incriminating on his clothes alone. The entire town believed Dream when he gave that oath, believed him to be just as loyal as they were. 

Everyone that was, but Schlatt. 

He places a hand on Dream’s shoulders and gently turns him around. “Let’s take a walk, eh? Just you and me?” 

“I’m actually a bit busy at the moment-”

“Is that so?” Schlatt starts walking, his hands buried in his pockets. The brim of his hat hides his expression, throws dark shadows across his face. 

“Yes, it is so.” Dream replies tightly. 

“I suppose you must. I hear your home is being quartered tonight. Oh what was the fellow’s name? George, yes, that was it.” 

Dream glances at him. Being the magistrate, Schlatt knew just about everything about everyone, which put him in close proximity with the major. It really shouldn’t have surprised him that Schlatt knew this, but it still catches him off-guard. It meant that Schlatt was paying close attention to Dream and everything that had to do with him. 

“George?” He repeats as the two step away from the town center and down a dirt path. The trail lead past a few homes before being swallowed by the woods a little ways down. 

“Lieutenant George.” Schlatt corrects, his pointed shoes digging into the dirt. “Just transferred here from New York City.” 

What was a big city officer doing in a backwater Long Island town? Why transfer a lieutenant? 

Instead, Dream says, “I’m sure he will be lovely company.” 

“Oh, yes. He is very pleasant. But that’s not why I came to talk to you, Dream.” 

Dream glances at him again, hoping to catch his eye, but Schlatt doesn't offer it. “What did you wish to speak about?” 

“Well, Dream, unfortunately I still have good reason to believe there’s a snitch in our midst.” 

He frowns, dread running like liquid fire through his veins. “What are you suggesting, sir?” 

Schlatt laughs. “Oh, I’m not accusing you. But I will be having a little get-together at my estate next Saturday, with the major and a few others.”

Dream’s frown deepens. “A party?” 

“Party is a strong word. Let’s call it a gathering of like-minded individuals. You’ve got a good head on you, a keen eye. I want you there, helping me weed out the filth.” 

He swallows. He’s sweating despite the cold. “Why do you think this… snitch will be at your gathering?” 

The two of them reach the place where the path enters the woods. If they follow it down, they’ll pass a few farms and homesteads before reaching Dream’s. They turn to face each other, and Schlatt finally catches Dream’s eye. He smiles in that cold way that makes people want to duck their head. 

“Just a hunch. What do you say to that? Will you be there?” 

Dream blinks, holds his gaze despite the way it makes his skin crawl. 

“I’ll be there. Thank you for the invitation.” 

Schlatt tips his hat before walking back the way they came, a cold wind blowing his coattails like a cape. “Pleasure doing business with you.” 

Dream doesn't return the sentiment. 

He is in the fields, pulling up cabbages when he arrives. The sky is the color of shucked oysters, and Dream has already put on an extra coat to fight against the evening chill. The wind rattles the dried leaves hanging from the tree branches. He digs his fingers deep into the ground around the cabbage, feels the soil squish around his hands, before he twists and pulls. It takes a good few yanks to get the cabbage out, and when he does a web of roots clings to the bottom. He cuts them off before he straightens up, and as he does so he sees a man making his way to his home. 

Dream’s grip tightens around the cabbage. The man is a soldier, with a blood-red coat and a three-tipped hat, boots darker than spilt ink over a pair of white stockings. There’s no mistaking him for Wilbur, he’s much shorter. Something crawls up his throat, the same nervousness he feels before making a delivery, or when he’s frantically copying a letter in someone’s office. 

The soldier spots him across the field and he stops before giving a polite wave. Dream sighs, tosses the cabbage into his wheelbarrow, and heads up the hill. He wipes the dirt off his hands, and adjusts his own hat as he approaches. He does not wave back. 

The soldier has a rifle slung over one shoulder and a bag over the other. He doesn't wear a wig, and his dark hair is kept short. He watches Dream approach with an unreadable expression, but holds out his hand once Dream is in reach. 

He briefly thinks about ignoring it, but can’t bring himself to. He dosen’t want to make this messier than it is. He takes the soldier’s hand and his grip is firm, his hand small in his. Dream has a good few inches on him, and the height difference gives him a guilty sense of reassurement. 

“Lieutenant George Evans of the 31st Regiment of Foot.” The soldier says, and Dream hates that his first thought is, _he has a nice voice_. “Pleased to meet you.” 

He nods. “Dream. Likewise.” 

George drops his hand and peers over Dream’s shoulder at his farm. “Cabbages?” 

Something about the way he says it makes Dream want to hit him. He nods politely. “Cabbages.” 

George hums in acknowledgement, then glances at the house. “I probably won’t be around too much, I work alot.” 

Dream raises an eyebrow. “Are you a paperpusher?” 

George glares at that, and yeah maybe Dream deserved that. “I commanded a unit at Bunker Hill.” 

“And how did that turn out?” 

George’s eyes narrow, and Dream realizes his slipup just as George asks, rather bluntly, “Are you a patriot?” 

“I swore my allegiance to the crown on a Bible just as you did.” Dream counters. “In front of the whole town. Ask the magistrate.” 

It’s a decent recovery, but he kicks himself. Three sentences with this guy and Dream has already made a slip-up, something he can’t afford, not this early on. He has to get the guy to trust him. Maybe nerves are unraveling him, maybe he’s more tired than he thought. Maybe it’s just George. 

George looks him up and down, his eyes narrowed distrustfully. Dream holds his breath, but doesn't break eye contact. 

Finally, George breaks first. He removes his cap and nods towards the house. “Would you mind showing me in?” 

_Yes_. “No, not at all.” Dream says, opening the door with a creak. He hadn’t bothered to clean the house, and he doesn't miss the way George’s nose wrinkles slightly at the scent of smoke from the fireplace and the dirty pans that hang from the rafters. The floorboards creak under their feet, and Dream tries to ignore the way his stomach turns at the sight of a redcoat in his house. 

Dream opens the bundle of groceries from earlier which he hadn’t bothered to put away. George ducks beneath a copper pot as he follows Dream into the kitchen, his eyes wide as he takes in the cramped surroundings. 

Dream fishes out the apples, dumping them into a basket on the table. George watches silently as he pours the bag of coffee into a ceramic pot, careful not to get the powder on the table. Dream didn’t have much, but coffee was the one indulgence he couldn’t kick. 

He shakes out the last of the grounds before he looks up at George. “Do you need something?” 

George studies him for a long moment. “Where will I be staying?” 

“Here.” 

“Yes but which room?” He asks, and Dream notes the twinge of annoyance in his voice, the way he’s adamantly trying to uphold the face of a British gentlemen, the way Dream’s barely done anything yet and it’s already cracking. 

He seals the pot of coffee, sets it on the counter. “Upstairs, second on the left.” 

“Thank you. Was that so hard?” 

Instead of saying anything, Dream opens the bag of sugar, stamped with the royal seal, and pours that into a second jar. The white powder reminds him of sparkling December snow. He doesn't say anything, and eventually George turns on his heel, a perfect about-face, and finds his way upstairs. It’s only when Dream hears the door close that his shoulders slump forward and he exhales a great sigh. 

He sets the empty bag of sugar aside, glaring at the royal seal. He supposes things could be much worse. He could be stuck quartering an old guy, or a drunkard, or someone who would already be dragging Dream to the major for his disrespect. 

Above him, he hears the dull thud of something being set down, followed by drawers and closets being thrown open. He sighs, watches the window as a few stray leaves scatter in the wind. Winter was approaching uncomfortably fast already, and Dream would barely have the funds and provisions to scrape through another long, New England winter. 

He finishes putting away the food, before he dons his cap and gloves once again and heads for the field. Dream tries not to think about the soldier upstairs as he wrenches another cabbage from the dirt. He does his best to ignore the set of eyes on him from the second story window. 

He imagines that each cabbage is a british soldier that he’s uprooting from America, tossing across the Atlantic into the wheelbarrow of England. He works until he’s sweating and the sun has gone down. 

He didn’t think that drowning himself in work would fix all his problems, but it’s still something of a shock when he comes back in and finds George sitting at his kitchen table. He has a pot of ink in front of him and a lit candle, and he’s hunched over a piece of parchment, writing with a ferocity to rival James Boswell. 

Dream closes the door, stomping the mud off his boots. George looks up as he enters, and it’s like they’re both just as surprised as the other to see each other. 

For a long, long moment they just stare at one other. The room is dark, the candles and lanterns throwing the room in dramatic shadows. Dust swirls in the shadows and George’s eyes are dark, face unreadable. Dream sees the red of George's coat, and suddenly it’s all he can see. 

George nods to the candle on the table. “I hope you don’t mind that I lit it.” 

Dream swallows, and shakes his head. He hangs up his cap and gloves and ignores the pain in his back as he begins rifling through his pantry. “I don’t mind.” 

A few minutes pass. The scratching of the quill begins again as Dream fills a cauldron of water and heats it on his Franklin stove. He’s cutting up a few potatoes when he hears George stop writing and ask, seemingly from nowhere, “Do you not have a wife?” 

His knife freezes for a moment above the potato, before he cuts it. “No.”

“No servant?” 

At that he turns towards George. “Do I look like I can afford a servant?” 

George throws up his hands defensively. “I just don’t understand how you can farm, go to town, keep up with town politics and gatherings, and cook and clean.” He lists them all off on his fingers, looking at Dream incredulously as he cuts the potatoes into quarters. 

“It’s a simple matter of independence.” Dream gathers the cut potatoes and dumps them in the pot before realizing his poor choice of words. It’s like rubbing salt in the wound. His heart beats rapidly against his chest, like a caged animal. He can’t bring himself to look at George because he knows the guilt is written all over his face like paint. 

“Independence?” George repeats carefully, and the way his accent clips the word makes his skin crawl. He thinks of the box buried out by the cabbages, filled with blatant patriotism and the ideas of Thomas Paine. 

Dream begins the process of cooking the dried peas.. “What would you know of independence?” 

He glances over and Jesus, Dream shouldn’t have looked at George. It’s like he’s being simmered over a fire, and under his full attention Dream feels something in him crack like porcelain. 

“The crown has given the colonies independence for centuries.” George says carefully, speaking like it’s a memorized script. “But the colonists are selfish and greedy, and they looked for _more_. More than the king has already given. This isn’t a movement for independence, it’s selfishness and pride.” 

And yeah, this was not how this conversation was supposed to go. They stare at each other, and George’s hand on his quill is shaking, almost imperceptibly, but Dream notices. He notices everything. 

But he wasn’t a spy for nothing. He puts on his best grin, crooked and lopsided, the one he knows gets him out of just about everything. He raises his hands defensively, one of them holding a drooping scallion. “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“How did you mean it?” 

He knows George is smart enough to see right through his guise, but he knows an out when he sees it. Why is he even being offered one? 

“I meant that clearly someone who was used to having a wife and maids doesn't understand what it’s like to be on their own.” He says, carefully steering the conversation away from the topic of the rebellion. 

George looks away, and it’s like Dream can breathe again. “I don’t have a wife either. Or servants.” 

The water starts to boil. Dream tosses in the scallions and peas. He doesn't say anything, and eventually George starts writing again as the stew cooks. He doesn't know what kind of life George was coming from, and perhaps it wasn’t fair of him to assume that every British officer came from a well-off family on some sprawling English estate. But Dream truthfully didn’t want to poke the “wife” topic with a ten foot stick, and he was grateful that George seemed to have dropped it. 

Eventually, the soup is done and he ladles out two bowls. George barely notices, so engrossed in his work as he is, that Dream has to nudge his bowl over the letter before George looks up. He looks between the bowl and Dream. 

“It’s not poisoned.” He assures. 

George doesn't believe it. He switches their bowls, which cracks a surprised, laugh out of Dream. He watches George try it, eyeing him distrustfully. 

“Good enough for your _esteemed_ English taste?” 

George takes another bite. “It’s a few steps below the mush they serve at camp.” 

Dream smiles then asks, “What are you working on?” 

The distrust doesn't fall from George’s face, if anything, Dream watches him curl back into himself, practically hunching over the paper. “Something for the major.” 

Dream takes a bite of his own soup. “I thought you reported to Captain Soot?” 

“Yes, but it all goes to the major anyways.” George redips his quil, stares at the letter for a moment before continuing. 

Dream hums in acknowledgement. “When do you leave in the morning?” 

“Eager to have me gone?” 

Dream smiles. “I was simply being polite.” 

He gives him a long look, but finally he signs his name on the bottom of the paper and folds it before tucking it safely in an envelope. “I expect you won’t even see me much. I’ll leave early and be back late.” He takes a tentative spoonful of soup. “The major wants my help in weeding out rebel traitors from the town.” 

Maybe Dream has gotten so used to it, but his eyes don’t widen. He doesn't give George any sort of reaction- Lord knows he’s made enough slip-ups for one day. 

“I commend your efforts. Those rebels go around parading like they’re us, that they’re loyal to the crown.” He shakes his head. “There is no greater shame than pretending you’re something you’re not.” 

George meets his eyes, and it’s only then that Dream realizes one is a deep blue, the color of the Atlantic, the other a dark and gentle brown. His gaze steals the breath from his lungs. 

“Indeed.” 

Dream sneaks away that night. There’s a letter written in code in his pocket. He waits until the light in George’s room has been out for hours before he quietly slinks away into the night. Patches watches him go, her yellow eyes the only source of light in the whole house. 

He makes his way to the boat by the light of the moon, ears pricked for any sort of disturbance. He half-expects for George to come riding on horseback, demanding his arrest. Or even Schlatt, finally able to prove his long-time suspicions of Dream’s patriotism. But the woods are quiet, the trees thin as skeletons, and they hold his secrets tight. 

He brushes the leaves from the tarp covering the boat, and then rolls the tarp and shoves it into the hull. Dream looks over his shoulder once more, the note of code heavy in his pocket. He isn’t offering much- just news of a new shipment of gunpowder and bullets to the town, and of course the news of George. But he was eager to leave the town, to ward off the oppressive burden of it’s occupation and whispers behind closed-doors. 

Dream takes a deep breath as he wades into the frigid water, pushing the boat through the needle-thin creek until he’s able to jump in and take the boat to the sea. 

He steers clear of the British ships in the harbor, and watches the shoreline of Long Island fade away until it is only him and the churning sea, the waves thick and dark. The late-september moon spills silver light over the ocean, the sky devoid of stars as he sails north towards the rebellion. 

Dream reaches Mary’s Point well past midnight. He watches the shoreline for a half hour, waiting for movement or a flicker of light, but all he sees is the quiet dock and the sway of trees. With his tongue pressed to his cheek, he rows in, quickly tying the small fishing boat to the dock before climbing on. The only thing around for miles is unfiltered wilderness, and a single rebel safehouse that to anyone else, would look like little more than an abandoned cabin. But Dream doesn't dare go far enough into the woods to find it. His job doesn't require it. 

Instead, he crosses the dock, the boards squeaking under his feet as he stares up at an innocuous oak tree, the only thing at all special about it being a small knot half-way up the trunk. Dream takes a deep breath, looks left and right, before hoisting himself up into the branches. 

He moves like he was born in the trees. Sapnap always said there was no place Dream couldn’t go. As a kid they called him a spider, but they never dreamed those skills would be used for anything other than playing in the trees. 

He is nearly at the knot when the branch holding his left foot cracks like a bone, the entire branch giving way. Dream scrambles, holding himself up by the arms while his feet search for a foothold. He finds one quickly enough, but the sound of the branch cracking was like a strike of thunder on a silent night. He holds still, barely daring to breathe as he strains for any kind of noise. 

Five minutes pass and he hears nothing. He slips the note into a small metal tube inside the knot of the tree before scurrying down. He doesn't release the breath he’s holding until he’s pulling the boat into shore, and he doesn't relax until he silently slinks back into his house at three a.m.. He collapses onto his bed, and dreams of redcoats and cracking tree branches. 

  
  


“You have to believe me!” The kid stresses, nearly tearing out his hair in the church. What’s left of the church, anyways. The major’s desk stands where the pews once stood, and hay is stuffed in the pews that are still left. The major’s horse pokes at the hay. The horse is massive, bright white, all the way from the best stables in England. 

The major, a middle-aged man with a powdered wig and a stern face, glances between the kid in front of him and Wilbur. 

“Captain Soot can vouch for you?” 

“Well,” the kid says, and he isn’t even old enough to be there. He lied about his age, and he tells himself that anything is better than the Brighton streets. “Captain Soot technically didn’t see it-” 

“You expect me to launch a full investigation on the town based on a fleet sighting by a sixteen-year old drummer?” 

“Eighteen!” Tommy interjects, but no one believes the lie. “And my friend, Private Tubbo I mean, saw it too-” 

The major raises an eyebrow and leans across his desk. “Then tell me why you didn’t report it immediately? Surely something so dire would have caused you to alert it immediately?” 

“Major.” Wilbur cuts in, his tone short and clipped. “Private Tommy and Tubbo were not even on watch last evening, but they have no reason to lie to you about this.” 

The major’s eyes flick between Wilbur and Tommy, whose arms are folded behind his back as he twists his hands to keep them from shaking. It’s a stark contrast to Wilbur, who despite being young, acted the perfect soldier. An unshakeable mask and honor to the crown, and really, the major is lucky to have him. 

“Alright.” He relents. “I’ll search the cove for hidden boats, but in the future you need to report, _immediately_. Understood, Private?” 

Tommy nods quickly. “Yes sir, I understand, sir.” 

The major gestures for him to go, and he quickly leaves, grateful to be out from the oppressive air of the church. George watches the scene from his corner, bent over a desk and a stack of letters and reports. He presses his tongue to his cheek. He thought he’d heard someone leave the house the night before. 

Dream pushes the wheelbarrow, stuffed full of cabbages, over the uneven ground and into the shed on the opposite end of the field. The shed is crammed full of dried meats, firewood, and cabbages. 

He dumps the fresh cabbages into a sack before hauling the wheelbarrow back up to the field. He wipes the sweat from his brow and his stomach twists, thinking about how this could have easily been everything his life led up to; a measly cabbage farm on the coast of Long Island. Then the British had come. 

It had been a few days since George’s arrival, and the two hadn’t spoken much. The handful of conversations they’d held were awkward at best and tense at worst, both of them treading on sheets of glass. George was gone the vast majority of the day, and Dream made it a point to have dinner ready before he got back- it was their only olive branch. Of course, he also made a point to be asleep or up in his room by the time George returned. 

It was tentative, and really, there was no way he could live like this indefinitely. He felt trapped in his own home. Everywhere he looked he saw signs of George, signs of the king. He didn’t want George there, and Dream didn’t strictly try to hide that fact.

The sun was setting, and that evening George came back earlier than expected. Dream’s heart pressed against his chest as George toes off his boots, the bags under his eyes deep as he runs a hand through his hair. Dream blinks, before realizing that George hasn’t seen him yet. And it’s almost sweet, watching the way he slides off the soldier persona as easily as a coat. 

He chides himself. A red coat is a red coat. 

Dream makes some odd noise in the back of his throat to let George know he’s there. He can feel the press of the other’s eyes burning into the back of his head. His skin crawls, and he grips the knife in his hand a little too hard as he slices the turkey. It wasn’t often he got his hands on meat that wasn’t horribly over priced, and he’d be damned if he let the lobsterback ruin it for him. 

“Good evening.” He says thickly. 

George bends down to scratch Patches. “Good evening. Is that turkey?” 

“Yes.” Dream slices the turkey with more force than necessary. 

George collapses onto a chair. “Good. I’m exhausted.” 

“Long day of pushing papers?” Dream sets aside the cut strips, freshly cooked, before dumping the potatoes into a strainer, the boiling water sloshing down the cauldron. 

“At least what I do requires some semblance of critical thought.” George snaps back. 

Dream shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t- but he rises to the bait like a fish. Maybe it’s the uniform, maybe it’s just George that sets him off like a lit fuse. 

“Now you’re classist and imperialist?” He leans over. “Does the world spin around your feet, not the sun’s? The sun never sets on you does it? Enlighten me, George, what's it like to have the whole world for your picking?” He draws the words out, allowing each of them to land like droplets in a bucket. He watches George’s face harden with each word. They’re both wondering how every one of their conversations spiral into this, into rocks thrown against glass over a home cooked meal. 

“You’re a godless man.” George remarks. “You skip church, you drink. You live alone. The world doesn't owe you anything- _I_ don’t owe you anything.” 

“I didn’t ask you for anything, limey. I just ask you go back to the hellhole across the Atlantic you crawled from.” 

George sneers. “You live on God’s land and think it yours. So long as the King’s flag waives over this country it belongs to Britain.” 

He smiles just slightly, a whisper of a grin. “It’s blasphemous to assume the king is equivalent to God, George.” He doesn't think they’re talking about God. 

“I could turn you in.” George replies, his words clipped. “The major would have you shot.”

Dream leans back, the candlelight flickering across his face. “With what proof?” 

George’s mismatched eyes narrow. “I’ll find something.” 

Carefully, like he’s standing on a broken branch he says, “Not liking the king doesn't make me a patriot. It means I have a semblance of _critical thought._ You’re jumping to conclusions.” 

Outside, the wind blows as the last snatches of sunlight disappear from the world. Leaves blow over the rows of cabbages and the grass turns brown with autumn. George searches Dream’s face. Dream has been told time and time again, by Sapnap, by Techno, by Schlatt, that his inability to hide his emotions would get him caught. 

“You’re so expressive.” Sapnap had told him once, a few months ago. They had been in Connecticut, their words swallowed by the trees. A fire flickered between them, and Sapnap gently poked it with a stick. Dream hadn’t yet agreed to be a spy, he was still reeling from seeing his best friend in the blue and red uniform of the continental army. 

_Common Sense_ was opened on his lap and Dream was falling into something he didn’t think he could ever get out of. 

“Jumping to conclusions?” George says, dragging him back to the present. “The monarchy gave America _everything_. You’re a cocky piece of shit if you think Washington could give this country more.” 

Ah, there it is. The slip in the persona that nearly has Dream grinning and pulling George towards him and asking him to say it again. Then he remembers what he said. 

“I never said anything about Washington, George.” He leans forward, watches the way George’s eyes widen. “I just have an authority problem.” 

George’s jaw stiffens, he knows what Dream means by it, and it’s more personal than merely attacking the King, a faceless man across the sea. In this town, anyone with a red coat has privileges the colonists couldn’t even dream of. 

A long, long moment passes. The darkness outside settles and the water on the stove boils but neither pay it any mind. Slowly George says, “You want me gone.”

“It’s my house.” 

“Your house belongs to the king.” He retorts, the water boils over and fizzles on the stovetop. George is surprised by the steadiness in his voice. “You have no say in what happens to it.” 

Dream moves back to fix the water, he didn’t even mean to boil it again. He bites the inside of his cheek, his thoughts tumbling through his head. He has to make a trip to Connecticut tonight, but he doesn't think he can risk it, not after the conversation he and George just had. 

He shoves the sliced turkey and potatoes onto a cracked plate and pushes it across the table towards George. He makes his own plate, as he feels George’s eyes dig into the back of his head. It’s horribly reminiscent of a few nights prior, and Dream doesn't know how long he can stand these conversations. 

He catches a potato that nearly rolls to the floor just as George whispers, “I won’t tell the major.” 

Dream spins on his heel. “What?” 

“The Major. I won’t tell him.” He repeats. “But if I find, anything- _anything_ , Dream. It’s over.”


	2. Chapter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the two week break! I meant to mark this fic as being multi chaptered, and I also meant to post this about a week ago but I got pretty busy and I struggled a lot with this chapter, nonetheless here it is! They hate each other a little less. As a treat.

Schlatt’s “little gathering” turned out to be an actual party. At least three quarters of the town had gathered at White Hall Manor, the huge house was fit to bursting with guests. Dream stood outside on the lawn, golden candlelight from inside flickering across his face as he debated the merits of turning back and going home. 

Schlatt had gotten himself a pianist for the left side of White Hall Manor and a string quartet for the right side. The music floated out through the open windows and balconies. Dream wore his only nice shirt and coat. He thought it would be enough, but as he approached the front door he realized everyone else had gone with the more extravagant European styles. 

The moment he stepped inside he wanted to leave. He felt raw and exposed, like an open wound. A servant took his coat and hat and he watched silently as she took them into some unknown corner of the house. He wondered if he’d see them again. 

Men in suits the color of pastel paint and women in wide skirts with tall hair wandered past, barely sparing him a look. He pulls at his collar and tries to take a deep breath. He was only here because he’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t come. 

“You came!” Someone says from behind him. He turns to find Nikki, her hair pulled back with a few loose strands. She wore a wide pink dress and relaxed slightly, she was one of the only welcome faces he expected to come across tonight. 

“Hello.” He says. 

“Hello.” She looks left and right. “Can I speak with you? Outside?” 

“I just hung up my coat.” 

“I know, but it’ll only be a moment.” 

He looks left and right too, but no one was paying them any mind. “Alright.” 

Dream follows her out onto the lawn, where a few other partygoers mingled. Most were inside to avoid the cold night, and within minutes he began to wish that he had taken his coat with him. The sky was cloudy, blocking the moon and stars. The only light they had was the one which spilled from the open doors and windows, music gently carrying on the wind. 

Once they’re out of ear shot Nikki turns to face him, and Dream doesn't even have to see her face to know she’s pissed. It’s such a 180 from her usual temperance that he’s left staring. “I’ve been signalling for three days.” 

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking-” 

“Wasn’t looking?” She repeats. “Did you just think you could take a few days off, have a little rest?” 

Nikki lived at White Hall Manor along with the magistrate, Captain Soot, and the major. It was where all the prominent people of the town lived and gathered. The people who lived in White Hall were the only ones given any time of day by the British. Dream really had no place to complain about living with a single redcoat, Nikki lived with countless. 

“I left a message a few nights ago-” 

“Yes, but I think Sapnap needs to ask you of something.” She says curtly. “Did the candle in the window and the black petticoat mean nothing to you?” 

“Don’t you understand? I’ve got a soldier in my house. I can’t operate the same. He’s already suspicious of me.” He gestures westward, towards his farm. 

“And?” She says. “Washington has put a lot of faith in you-  _ Sapnap  _ has put a lot of faith in you. You can’t let one redcoat stop that, you’re better than that.” 

Dream opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. She was right, he was better than that. He was good at what he did, and George was just another redcoat to sneak around, nothing more. 

“Yeah. Yeah okay. I’ll go tonight.” 

Nikki hums in acknowledgment and they start heading back towards the manor. “Do you know why Lieutenant George asked for a transfer?” Nikki asks, the wind blowing the loose strands of hair from her face. 

“From New York?” 

“New York?” She questions. “That I don’t know, but he lived in White Hall for three weeks and he couldn’t stand the major. They argued about everything. George didn’t like what the major had done to the church, the major kept bringing up New York. I think something happened there. He argued with Schlatt too.” 

Dream frowns. He’d been wondering about George’s transfer, too. He had assumed it was because they didn’t need him in New York, that there were too many soldiers and he was needed elsewhere, but now he was left wondering if there was something more to it. Maybe Dream wasn’t the only one on thin ice. 

“See if you can find out.” Dream says at last as they crest the top of the hill where the house sits. A pair of redcoats walk past them, drunk beyond sin. Dream waits until they’re long gone before continuing. “George is pretty shut-off, it’ll be awhile before I get anything out of him, and I can’t risk him growing suspicious.”  _ Not anymore than he already is _ . 

Nikki nods. “You’ll go to Sapnap tonight?” 

Dream holds out his pinkie, and Nikki smiles as she takes it. “Promise. I missed the bastard anyways.” 

As they enter the manor, Dream is grateful to be out of the cold, but he grabs Nikki’s arm before they part ways. “Can you distract Schlatt or the major? I want to get a look through their things.” 

“First door on the right, third floor.” Nikki says without hesitating. “Be careful.” 

“Of course.” He says before slipping easily upstairs with the pretense of using the bathroom. The violinist switches from Bach to a sailing song of all things, and he can hear people begin to actually dance, like this isn’t some upper class elbow brushing opportunity. He snags a candle on the way up the stairs, the little flame flickering as he moves. 

The third floor is empty, and largely off limits. The halls were dark, the doors to the bedrooms shut tight. Dream looked around before quietly slipping into the first door on the right, the door closing softly behind him. 

He sets the candle on the desk and frantically opens drawers, flicking through printed and written documents. His heart pounds but his hands are steady, ears pricked for the slightest sound of movement. 

He opens another drawer, one that’s smaller and more innocuous. The first thing he finds is a letter addressed to the major from the head of intelligence in New York. Dream frowns. He holds it closer to the candlelight to get a better look. 

The letter was complete nonsense, it talked about tea sales and the price of horses and merchant ships coming into New York. There were brief mentions of the Sons of Liberty, but nothing worthwhile. Dream was at the end of the letter before it struck him- this was all in code. 

He looks around frantically for anything that can help, probably messing up some papers in the process and nearly spilling a jar of ink, which truly would have been the end of him. His heart pounds. This was it, something important. 

In the same drawer that he found the letter he finds a sheet of tin the color of fresh silver. There were small holes cut into it, seemingly at random. He places it over the letter he grins. The holes revealed the message, highlighting the important words otherwise hidden in the deluge of nonsense. 

_ Carelton  _ he reads.  _ Carleton attack Rebel ships at Valcour Island October 11th.  _

Dream blinks. Then blinks again as the words register, their meaning sinking like stones into his gut. October 11th was three days away. No way he got the message to Washington in time, no way the message got to Arnold before Carleton attacked Valcour Island. Dream’s hands start to shake, something that hadn’t happened since he was little. He grabs a spare piece of parchment and frantically copies the message. A bead of sweat drips down his forehead. 

Two sets of footsteps come up the stairs, and his heart beats furiously enough to crack a rib. He shoves the message into his coat pocket. The footsteps draw closer, practically on top of him. He stuffs the letter and the sheet of tin into the drawer. Dream blows out the candle then sets it on the floor behind the desk so it couldn’t be seen. He looks around for a place to hide,  _ anywhere  _ because Jesus Christ that door was about to open-

The door springs open. He slides under the bed and he just barely fits. The person on the other side of the door doesn't walk in, but their presence is palpable in the quiet tension that permeates the room like a fog. 

Dream presses his hands over his mouth and nose to quiet the sound of his breath. He feels ridiculous, hiding under a bed in his nice shirt and pants with stolen information in his pocket that could mean the war, that could bring independence. 

A second set of footsteps joins the first and quietly says, “C’mon, I think you’re being paranoid.” 

Dream mentally curses when he recognizes it to be Captain Soot, speaking softer than he’s ever heard him speak, as though he’s talking down a startled animal. 

“No, I saw someone come upstairs.” Says the first voice, and if Dream’s day couldn’t get any worse, it’s George. His heart does a stupid little stutter at the sound of his voice. He chalks it up to nerves. 

“George, come on. The door was closed, everyone is downstairs. What reason would they have to come upstairs?” 

Dream had been doing his best to avoid George as much as possible over the last two weeks. But he was aware of everything George did. He felt every inch of his presence, his senses magnified whenever they spoke. It was exhausting the way his heart rate climbed, the way he could feel every puff of air and smell smoke on the wind, attuned to everything the other did. 

Once it became evident that they were both stubborn and George wasn’t going to be the first to crack and ask for a transfer, they had both mutually agreed to avoid one another. Their conversations were short and clipped, treading just beyond the edge of polite civility. George left early and came back late. Dream would retire to his room before George came home. It was almost enough. He could almost imagine that he still lived alone. 

“Do you know what kind of information could be in these rooms? Schlatt said the rebel would be at this party-” 

“Jesus Christ.” Wilbur says, and Dream can imagine him holding the bridge of his nose. “You’ve had one too many cups of ale.” 

“I’m sorry I’m the only one taking the threat seriously!” 

“Schlatt is paranoid. He sleeps with a loaded gun, I stopped taking the shit he said seriously a long time ago. If you knew what was best, you would too.” 

“But he’s right.” George insists. “He knows this town better than anyone, he knows everything about everyone. If anyone were to be able to track down a rebel it would be him.” 

“Seriously? He’s pointing a finger at Quackity. You can’t seriously think there’s any basis in that accusation beyond a mutual dislike.” 

_ Please leave. Please Lord above let them leave.  _

“Quackity?” George repeats, his voice strained with doubt. 

“Exactly.” Wilbur says. “It’s crazy. He’s crazy. Let’s just go back down, okay?” 

They shut the door behind them, and it’s not until their footsteps have disappeared into the crowd of partygoers that Dream releases the breath from his lungs, his hands falling weakly to his sides. He takes another slow breath before rolling out from under the bed, the paper crinkling in his pocket. 

Dream waits a handful of minutes before leaving the room, careful to close the door behind him. He finds the servants staircase, something Nikki had once shown him, and uses it to pop back out in the kitchens. The servants spare him a few odd looks, but he slips easily back into the midst of partygoers, reappearing as if he’d never left. 

His heart still pounds, maddeningly fast. He had to find a way to leave without appearing hasty, then he had to make the journey to Connecticut and tell Sapnap. The blood rushes to his head as he thinks about the message in his pocket, what it could mean for the war. 

“Dream!” His elation falters. 

He puts on his best grin, ignoring the whip of deja-vu as he turns towards the Magistrate. “Schlatt.” 

Schlatt pats him on the back. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, started to worry you weren’t coming.” 

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He says easily. 

“Good, good. I’m glad to know you have the time for little stints like this.” Schlatt releases his hold on him, but stands close enough that Dream can smell the tobacco on his coat. “Say, I’ve got a little business proposition for you.” 

“What’s that?” He asks, taking a discrete step back. 

“You’ve got a lotta cabbages to sell, huh? What if you took a little trip to New York, delivered them to Colonel Cooke for the British Army provisions. They need all the food they can get with winter approaching.” 

His mind spins. New York? Could he leave the town for that long? Could he get information in New York? Could he afford to sell his cabbages to the army instead of directly into the market? The British were not generous with their prices. 

“New York?” He repeats dumbly. 

“Yes, New York City.” Schlatt agrees. “You could leave in a few days, get all the cabbages you need. I’ll get the major to assign you an escort who can get you through all the checkpoints. Would George work? You seem to get along well.” 

Dream’s smile falters. So much for getting a break, or gleaming information from New York. “I’ll think on it.” 

“Unfortunately, you don’t get to think on it. Us loyalists aren’t much for free-will, huh?” Schlatt elbows Dream in the side, cracking up at his own joke. “I’ve already made the arrangement, so you don’t really get much of a say. Want me to tell George?” 

His mouth goes dry. He slowly shakes his head. “I’ll tell George.” 

Why does he get a rush from saying his name? Schlatt laughs again, patting him on the back. “I knew you’d come around.” 

Dream watches him disappear into the crowd, and he’s left there with a spinning mind. His fingers itch. He should have never come to this party. 

He stays a few minutes, just so that people see that yes, he did indeed come. It would give him a decent alibi if anything else. He was getting ready to go, itching to talk to Sapnap when someone grabs his arm. Expecting to find Nikki again, he’s mildly shocked when it’s George. 

“George?”

“Did Schlatt tell you?” He whispers, and they’re standing close enough to touch. Dream feels every inch of space between them, every inch they’re almost touching. 

Damn, he was supposed to be the one to break the news to George. He nods. 

“Shit.” George takes a step back, runs a hand through his hair. “Shit. Can we go? If I see his face one more time I’m gonna break this glass over his head.” 

Dream blinks. George clearly wasn’t entirely sober. Not drunk, but not sober. He sighs. This is fine, he can deal with this. He was looking for an excuse to leave anyways. 

He guides George to the door, and they wait a few minutes for the servant to collect their coats and hats before they disappear into the autumn night. Both of them are grateful to shrug off the heat and claustrophobia of the party. Dream shoves his hands into his pockets, fills his lungs with the cool air. He almost laughs, thinking about how the last time they’d been near each other was Dream hiding under a bed while George was looking for a rebel. For him. 

Now they walk openly under the night sky, heading west towards the farm as White Hall disappears behind a line of trees. Dream pulls his hat down, grateful for the way it hides his face. He can feel George fuming beside him, boiling like a geyser. Dream was grateful that the anger wasn’t directed at him, for the first time since they’ve met. 

“Schlatt is seriously making me go back to New York?” He seethes. “He knows what the fuck happened in New York, knows that New York is the last place I wanna go. He could have chosen anyone else for this and he came to me.  _ Me _ , Dream. Do you know what that means?” 

Usually Dream is the one rambling, he’s surprised by George’s pent up emotion. Typically he did anything to avoid showing emotion he didn’t need to. George doesn't wait for Dream’s answer before barreling on. “It means he despises me. You know the reason I left White Hall? It was because of Schlatt. The major, too. But it really all boiled down to Schlatt.” 

“How did you live with him?” Dream asks once they’ve put a good distance between them and the manor. Without a lantern, the night is frighteningly dark. The sky was starless and empty of a moon. 

“Schlatt?” George asks and Dream nods. 

“I avoided him when I could. His moods were impossible to predict. He was in charge of the town before we came, and I think he misses that.” George kicks a stone down the path, they take the back way through the woods. He looks at Dream, and he doesn't know if he wants him to stop or never look away. 

“Now he’s way down the chain of power, and it makes him uncomfortable. He thinks that by finding rebels he’ll somehow gain more respect and power from the major.” 

Dream laughs dryly, shaking his head at the ground. “Well, that’s something we have in common.” 

“What is?” 

He looks at George and smiles. “We both hate Schlatt.” 

George smiles back, small and careful. Something in Dream flutters. 

George falls asleep almost instantly. They’ve barely been home more than five minutes before Dream finds him passed out in his room, still wearing the clothes from the party. Dream smiles softly, before gently blowing out the candle and shutting the door. 

He changes into something more comfortable, notably his favorite green coat that was so old it was more brown than green, and a pair of boots he used for farming. As he slips out of the house he returns his three-point hat to his head and pulls a bandana over his face to hide his identity. He didn’t think he’d be caught, not tonight with everyone drunk at White Hall and George passed out in his room. 

Dream relies on a handful of twinkling stars that emerge from the clouds to guide him north as his little boat rocks on the waves. The ocean seemed to breathe that night, each rise and fall of a wave was like a pulse. Dream rarely felt small, he had been told for too long that he was made for bigger things, but in the cradle of the Atlantic on a two-seat rowboat he felt like a needle in a haystack. A grain of sand on the beach. 

There was a faint glow coming from Mary’s Point, and Dream stilled as he approached. He presses his tongue to his cheek, his shoulders squared. A light fog hugged the water, and he was certain that whoever was at the shore hadn’t seen him yet. The light flickered out, then began again a few minutes later. The boat drifted closer and Dream reached for his musket, clutched it tightly in his hands. There was no way for him to know who it was- surely Sapnap wouldn’t be stupid enough to light a fire. 

“I know you’re there, Dream. The fog isn’t that dense.” 

The voice is tired but achingly familiar. Dream’s grip on the gun loosens, and he isn’t sure whether to slump forward in relief or shoot his friend for being an idiot. 

The boat bumps against the dock and Dream carefully gets out, tying it into place. Sapnap is sitting just inside the treeline, a match in his hand as he methodically sets scraps of paper on fire. The glow lights up his face, and they both watch for a moment as the fire licks over the paper. Dream watches it curl and blacken as the flames devour it. 

He sits beside his friend for a long moment. He’s burning a letter of some sort, Dream only catches snippets of words before they’re buried under the heat of the fire, they’re words like “providence” and “Philadelphia” and “Continental Army”. 

“What is that?” He finally asks. “You shouldn’t burn it here, anyone can see.” 

“Oh, but I wanted you to see.” 

“Well now I’ve seen so you can stop.” 

Sapnap huffs a sigh, but he crushes the match and burnt paper under his boot, tossing them into darkness. An owl hoots somewhere nearby and the dead leaves in the trees rattle against one another. 

“Where have you been?” Sapnap asks. “This is the third night I’ve been here.” 

Dream pokes at the pile of ash on the ground. It’s hot to the touch. “Did you get my last message?” 

“The one about the limey in your house? Of course I did, I didn’t think that would mean cutting you from the circle.” He shakes his head. “Techno is impatient, and you know who Techno reports to?” 

Dream grits his teeth. “Washington.” 

“Exactly. You don’t wanna keep Mr. Washington waiting now do you? Better yet, you don’t wanna keep  _ me _ waiting, right?” 

“You could have just left a note. You didn’t have to wait.” 

“You see what I’m about to ask you is too important to be left in something as tactile as a note.” 

Dream looks up at that, his brows pinched forward and his frown deep. Too important for a note? Important enough that Sapnap would sit in the woods three nights in a row? He’s buzzing to tell him about what he found at White Hall, but he lets Sapnap go first. 

“What is it?” 

Sapnap grins, and his scarred hands reach into his bag. Dream grimaces everytime he looks at them. The skin was leathery and twisted, a marble of red and white. When they were about ten Sapnap’s house had burned down, likely from a candle that got tipped over and caught the curtains on fire. Everyone had been okay, but his friend’s arms had been badly burned in the incident when he was saving his little sister. 

Any normal person would have avoided fire like the plague after something like that. But Sapnap wasn’t exactly sane. Instead of being afraid of fire, he had become fascinated with it, almost to a fault. 

Sapnap hands over a piece of paper, on it is a rough drawing of a sculpture, a bust of who Dream would guess to be the King. 

“Techno has a contact in London.” He explains. “An artist working directly with the king- they sculpted this and hid something inside. It’s currently on the merchant ship the  _ HMS Triumph _ which is to dock in New York harbor in a week. The bust is being sold to a wealthy loyalist family known as the Daltons. I need you,” he jabs a finger at Dream’s chest, “to sneak into the house, extract the message from the bust without them noticing, and bring it to me.” 

His heart rate climbs, fluttering in his chest. Finally he had something to do other than report rumor and gossip, finally something of actual, tangible importance for this cause. Something more in line with his abilities. 

He leans forward towards Sapnap, his voice low, “How am I supposed to get the letter out without breaking the bust?”

Sapnap hands over a screwdriver and drilling tool. “You can go through the ear or the bottom of the bust.” He explains. “They might notice eventually, but it’ll be awhile. Worst comes to worse, break the bust. The letter inside is the most important thing.” 

Dream nods, carefully stowing the tools into his jacket pocket as Sapnap continues speaking. “You’ll have to find your own way into New York, can you do that?” 

Dream shrugs. “I’ve already got a trip planned to New York. Schlatt wants me to sell some of my cabbages to the army for provisions. I can go find this statue while I’m there.” 

Sapnap meets his eyes, his smile crooked and wild, the sort that got them into trouble as kids. Maybe that hasn’t changed because Dream grins back just as wildly, heedy on the idea of going to New York, of hitting the British where it hurts. 

“I’ve got one other thing for you.” Dream says. 

Sapnap’s smile widens. “For me?” 

Dream nods, and reaches into his pocket for the scrap of paper. “There was a party at White Hall tonight. I slipped into the major’s room and found this in a letter.” 

Sapnap’s eyes widen as he reads it. “Are you certain?” 

“Deadly.” 

He runs a hand through his hair and laughs incredulously. “I’ve gotta go. I’ve gotta get this to Techno tonight.” 

They both stand, and Sapnap kicks at the pile of ash to dispel it. Dream asks, “Will it make it to General Arnold in time?” 

Sapnap bites his lip, rereading the words again and again. “I don’t know. Valcour Island is pretty far, almost up to Canada. I’ll do my best, but once I get it to Techno it’s not up to me.” 

Dream nods in understanding. It was ambitious, he didn’t see anyway the news made it all the way to Valcour Island in three days. 

Sapnap pats him on the back. “Hey, we’ll do our best. Washington wouldn’t want this intel wasted.” 

Dream nods. Sapnap gives him one last grin, wider than the moon, before he disappears like a wraith into the forest. The trees and darkness swallow him like he was never there. 

Three days later finds Dream and George yoking two old horses to a wagon stuffed with cabbages. Frost blankets the ground, sticking to the grass like icing on a cake. The fallen leaves crunch under their feet, the frost cracking like broken branches. 

He hasn’t heard anything from Sapnap or anything about Valcour Island. The anxiety makes his stomach roll. 

“This is so stupid.” George mutters as he climbs into the wagon beside Dream. “So stupid. Schlatt is up to something.” 

Dream flicks the reigns, and with a grunt the horses start down the path. He spares a last glance at his farm. The cabbages had all been picked, just in time for the first frost. The morning is cold, the wind sharp and stinging across his cheeks. Beside him George rubs his nose, still grumbling about Schlatt. 

They roll along in awkward silence, the horses painfully slow as they drag the weight of the wagon. A pair of crows take flight from the trees as they pass, their dark shapes silhouetted against the sky. The woods around them were dense, the dappled morning sunlight spilt through the orange and yellow leaves. A strong gust of wind shook the leaves off, and they danced over the path and landed in the horse's manes. 

The silence between them was thick. Dream shifted awkwardly, his grip on the reins tight. George fiddled with the cuffs of his coat, and stared resolutely at the road ahead. 

Dream began to hum, just to break the silence. George didn’t say anything about it, until the sun was halfway up the sky and he finally snapped. “Is  _ Yankee Doodle  _ all you know?” 

“Hm? Oh do you want me to sing some of the other versions? The original is sort of repetitive.” He clears his throat and sings, “ _ The seventeen of June at Break of day, the Rebels they supriz’d us _ -” 

George shook his head. “No, no that one’s worse. The entire line was singing that stupid song at Bunker Hill.” 

“I could sing  _ Grenadiers,  _ would that be better?” 

George laughed and shook his head again. “No that’s even worse.” 

Dream looks away, trying not to smile at the sound of George’s laugh. He ignores the way it makes his chest swell. 

His laugh awkwardly tapers off and Dream doesn't try to sing again or fill the silence despite the way he hates it. At least they could be civil with one another, maybe this trip would prove that possible. He doesn't mind being civil with George. 

The wagon hits a particularly hard bump that jostles them against each other. Dream scoots as far to his side of the bench as he can. His skin burns. 

Eventually George speaks again. “I didn’t think I’d ever go back to New York.” 

“I wish you didn’t have to go either.” There’s more bitterness in the words than Dream meant. George flinches. 

“How long is the journey?” 

Dream looks at the sun, his three pointed hat cuts a shadow across his face. “I would guess about three hours left.” 

“That’s eternity.” 

The cart sways in the wind. A few cabbages roll around. Anytime with George feels like an eternity. 

“When we get to New York,” Dream says slowly, carefully choosing his words. “Let’s go our separate ways. I’ll sell my cabbages to the lieutenant, get a room in a boarding house, spend a couple days sightseeing. You can go off and do whatever Captain Soot needs, go find a tavern or something after. I don’t know. We don’t have to see each other.” 

George glances at him, then back towards the dusty road. “Alright. Where will we meet when the week is done?” 

“Whatever checkpoint we come in through.” He says, flicking the reins when the horses slow. “I’ll meet you there Saturday morning, we can be back in time for church on Sunday.” 

George scoffs. “The church with the pews ripped out?” 

Dream grits his teeth. “Whose fault is that?” 

“And here I was thinking you were actually being nice to me.” 

Dream drops the pretenses. “Why do you really not want to go to New York? Why did Schlatt really force you to come with me? In fact, why did he quarter you at my house in the first place?” 

George’s jaw tightens and his shoulders hunch. “I told you. It was because of Schlatt.” 

“Schlatt’s a heathen but he can’t be the root of every one of your problems, George.” 

“And what makes you think you have a right to ask these questions?” 

Dream throws his hands up in defeat. He thought they were getting somewhere with each other, but apparently they were unable to hold a genial conversation. “Because I live with you whether we like it or not!” 

“It’s our duty to serve the crown.” George says thickly. “You do so by giving up your crop, I do so by going where I’m needed.” 

“By doing what you’re told.” Dream corrects. “Aren’t you tired of being pushed around? They’re using you, all of them.” 

George stubbornly keeps his focus straight ahead. “I made this choice. It’s on me to see it through.” 

He lowers his voice even though there was no one but the birds to hear them. He thinks of a bust of King George III, and of Sapnap burning pieces of paper. 

“‘A long habit of not thinking a thing wrong, gives it a superficial appearance of being right, and raises at first a formidable outcry in defense of custom. But the tumult soon subsides. Time makes more converts than reason.’” He quotes. 

George finally, finally looks at him. “Who said that?” 

Dream smiles smugly. “No one.”

“No, no. Where’s it from? I don’t think you came up with that.” 

“Are you calling me dumb?” 

“No. I just don’t think that that’s something Dream would say.” 

Dream looks at him, the wagon hits another rock that makes the cabbages bounce. “You wouldn’t like the answer if I told you.” 

George doesn't say anything. They both know where it’s from. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes because I'm a nerd:  
> -Europe and America had fairly different fashion styles at the time, especially the higher class. The European high class was dominated by French styles, which were basically big dresses and big hair, brighter colors, and men wore three piece suits. American fashion still loosely followed Puritan values and were far less extravagant, especially because farmers were considered the ideal citizens, not the rich.  
> -The Battle of Valcour Island was fought on October 11-13 1776. It was one of the first naval battles in American history, most American ships were sunk or captured but it stalled British plans to reach the Hudson River valley.  
> -Most colonial farmers at the time made very little money because the British requisitioned their crops for the army or navy. Dream is lucky he’s able to sell it.  
> \- Yankee Doodle had a lot of variations, and the lyrics were pretty different back then. Both the British and Americans used it as like a "victory song".  
> \- Grenadiers is that one really obnoxious song with a lot of fifes and drums.  
> -Also yes, the quote Dream says is indeed a Thomas Paine quote from Common Sense. The book was pretty much outlawed in British held territory.


	3. Chapter III

It’s dark by the time they reach New York City. The buildings were made of brick, and pressed so close to one another they seemed to be glued together. There’s just enough light that the stars are dim, smudged like the sky was filled with smoke. Dream cranes his neck back to get a good look at them as the wagon rolls through the streets.

“You look like an idiot.” George hisses in his ear, flinching as a door to a tavern is thrown violently open and a man stumbles out followed by a few glass bottles which are thrown onto the street. George cringes. “We’re gonna get mugged.” 

Dream looks away from the sky. George was still grimacing at the drunkard. 

Dream grins crookedly. “Aw I won’t let anything happen to us, George.” 

George snorts but the line of his shoulders is tight, his jaw clenched. Dream could see the nervousness in him, almost palpable as they turned a corner leading to a part of the city more hard hit by the recent fire. A family is camped by the ruins of their house, eating dry pieces of bread. They pass an old woman hunched with age, with more sadness in her eyes than Dream can bare. He awkwardly looks away. 

Dream leans closer to George, his voice low. “Is this the right way to Colonel Cooke?” 

He nods grimly, staring resolutely at the street. The air smells of ash. An emaciated dog pokes through a ruined kitchen, half-exposed by a crumbling wall. 

“Was it this bad when you left?” 

George shakes his head. “I was gone before the fire. Colonel Cooke’s estate is beyond King’s College,” he explains, carefully steering the subject towards a different topic. “Which stopped the fire from spreading. I didn’t realize it had been this bad.” 

“Would you still have left?” He asks as they take a right down a block equally as ruined as the last. “If you’d know it had been this bad?” 

George stares at him. “You act like I had a choice.” 

Dream looks away. They don’t speak again until after they’ve passed King’s College and it’s as if they’ve entered a different city. The streets are well-lit from window light and Dream no longer has to squint through the darkness. Music wafts from an open window. The buildings here are newer, grand and proud instead of dilapidated and smoking. A pair of women in the latest fashion walk side by side. The taverns on this side of King’s College are well-constructed, the crowds within mostly redcoats. 

Here, the city teems with the life and vibrance that had been sucked away from the fire-stricken blocks. Here, the city was livable and prosperous. It was the New York Dream had always imagined. 

George turns another corner and a few minutes later they stop in front of a stately house, made of red brick with a blue roof. All of the windows were lit, and voices drifted pleasantly from the inside. 

“I’ll stay here, make sure no one tries to steal these.” George says, gesturing at the cabbages. “You go talk to Cooke.” 

Dream groans. “Must I have to? Can’t you go talk to him?” 

“He won’t pay me, but he’ll pay a poor farmer.” George pushes his arm. “Go. The sooner we get this over with the sooner we can sleep and be out of each other's hair.” 

Sleep. That sounded good. Dream peels himself from the bench of the wagon, ignoring the way his back and shoulders pop. 

George snorts. “Growing old on me?” 

“Yeah, you’re giving me grey hairs.” 

George laughs. “Just go get your money.” 

Colonel Cooke is halfway drunk when Dream knocks on the door. Cooke carries a flask of rum with him, taking a sip after every other sentence. By the time the cabbages have been carted off, Dream’s wagon and horses secured, and he has a little sack of gold in his hands, Cooke is incoherent. He goes on and on about his life in England, groaning about New York’s crime and prositution issues. Dream doesn't say anything. Cooke had given him more money than he should have. Dream doesn't complain. 

When he walks back outside, George is sitting on the front steps holding his chin with one hand and his eyes closed. Dream smiles despite himself, his eyes crinkling. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Sleeping.” George answers without opening his eyes. “You were gone so long.” 

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Cooke had a lot to say about New York.” 

“Mmm. I’m sure he did.” 

Dream kicks George’s boot, and he makes a halfhearted gesture to move it further away. Dream laughs, “Come on, get up.”

George grumbles, but eventually stands. He wipes the grime from his boots before starting down the street, Dream close behind. 

The sack of gold is a comforting weight, and George is yawning as they walk side-by-side down the darkening street. People blow out the candles in their windows as they walk, and New York slowly falls dark. 

If someone told Dream a month ago that he would be walking side by side with George down the streets of New York, he would’ve called them insane. He shoves his hands in his pockets, leaning back as he walks and trying not to smile. 

“What took you so long in there?” George grumbles again, rubbing at his face as if it’ll make him feel more awake. 

“I thought the whole exchange went remarkably quick.” Dream counters, stifling his own yawn. “How far to this place?” 

“Just another couple blocks. It’s near King’s College.” 

Dream nods. “And we’re staying in separate rooms?” 

“Of course.” George says without pause. Dream doesn't know why it stings. 

A cat passes from one shadowed street corner to the next. A couple starts arguing in one of the houses along the street but they turn the corner and it fades away. 

George leads them to a small tavern, crowded with travelers and a handful of soldiers. The patrons gave him and George an odd glance, it wasn’t often that a colonist and a soldier went anywhere together. 

The bartender, a tall man with dark curly hair, gives George an odd look as he approaches. Dream’s eyes flicker between the two and he watches George stiffen up again. His eyes narrow at the bartender. Why had he taken Dream somewhere he clearly didn’t wanna be?

“Lieutenant.” The bartender says, and Dream is surprised to find that he’s British. 

“Eret.” George says by way of greeting. “Do you have two rooms?” 

He nods, his gaze glancing over to Dream who stood with his suitcase and his hat still on. He doesn't shy away from Eret’s gaze. 

Eret looks away from Dream and back to George. “What are you doing in New York?” 

“Nothing of your concern.” George replies curtly. He holds out his hand. “The rooms?” 

Eret drops two keys into George’s palm, his smile forced. “How long will you be staying?” 

“Just a few days.” George says, handing Dream one of the keys at random. Eret watches them retreat upstairs, George’s jaw is tight while Dream is left wondering what the fuck just happened. 

The hallways are random and twisting, as if it was built around the rooms instead of the other way around. Dream rubs his head. The hallways remind him of New York, and of this strange period in his life where he feels like he’s being dragged from one thing to the next. As much as he likes to think he’s in control, that he’s the one calling all the shots he isn’t stupid enough to not realize that he’s the one orbiting around something far greater than himself. 

George gestures at a door. “This one’s yours.” 

Dream looks between his key and the number on the door. “Are you sure?” 

“Positive.” George replies, taking a few steps down the hall. Dream’s stomach twists like a braid of rope. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To sleep.” He says, as if it’s obvious- and it probably is. 

Dream looks at him. “Are we just not gonna talk about what happened down there?” 

He braces himself for a fight, because George is always ready to give one. They both live like they’re walking on tightropes. Even now George is looking at him, all coiled tenseness, drawn tight like the string of a bow. Dream waits for the blow, for the inevitable stumbling conversation and tongue-and-cheek insults that are borderline treasonous. 

But it never comes. The tension never leaves George, there’s no satisfying uncoil of emotions that Dream can lean into, but what he does say is, “I made a mistake and Eret owes me. Neither of us are eager to see eachother again.” 

Dream nods, tampering down his curiosity. Then quietly, with more fondness than he means to let out he whispers, “Will I see you in the morning?” 

George gives him a long look and he’s still wearing that stupid red coat. Dream curses, certain that he could hear the dearness that accidentally slipped out. 

“If I’m lucky I won’t see you until we leave New York.” 

Dream laughs. “Is that a promise?” 

George turns to leave. “No.” 

Two nights later finds Dream crouched low on a wall, his heart beating quick enough to crack a rib. When he exhales there’s a little cloud that hangs in the cold air, before the breeze sweeps it away. 

Dream flexes his gloved hands. There's a piece of leather wrapped around his wrists that he’d hastily sewn, with a spot for a knife. It felt a little overkill, but he wasn’t one to push his luck. 

The tools for extracting the letter from the statue were in the pocket of his green coat. He wears his three-point hat again, pulled low over his face, and a bandana that covers everything above his eyes. He tells himself that he is ready. 

Dream had spent the last two days avoiding George, which was easy because George seemed to be avoiding him as well; and also watching the harbor. 

The  _ HMS Triumph  _ wasn’t easy to miss. With it’s hull painted a dark green, and three towering masts it was easy to notice. It bobbed alongside the docks, men slipping in and out of it, weighed down by heavy crates stuffed with English goods. Dream asked around as subtly as he could about the ship, pretending to be looking for work, but the dockhands hadn’t been able to tell him much other than that it left England two weeks ago and had landed right on time. 

Now, the ship was completely unloaded and waiting to be filled with American products bound for England. Dream had watched the dockhands bring crates into the ship instead of carrying them out. 

Wherever the bust was, it wasn’t on the  _ Triumph.  _

The rest of his two days had been spent watching the Daltons. The Daltons who had more time than they reasonably knew what to do with. Dream had the vague, loose-grip of a plan, but he had always worked better with spontaneity. If he allowed himself to think too much, he’d never pull himself out of it. 

A cold wind nearly pulls the hat off his head. He takes a deep breath and immediately regrets it. New York didn’t smell of the sea and fallen leaves the way home did, New York smelled of manure and tobacco and gunpowder. If he tilted his head just right he could still smell the smoke and ash from the fire. 

A servant opens the back door, and Dream slinks back into the shadows. He cringes as she flings a chamber pot onto the lawn, apparently even the rich weren’t above such things. The open door casts a square of warm light over the lawn, and it grows smaller and smaller until he’s once again thrown into darkness. He listens for the telltale click of a lock, grinning when he hears nothing. 

Dream drops like a cat from his perch along the wall. In the blink of an eye he’s on the other side of the yard, pressed against the side of the house. His green eyes narrow in concentration before he edges the back door open and is met with an empty servant’s corridor. Apparently it was late enough that even the servants weren’t awake, the only light comes from a single flickering candle. 

He looks left and right, ears strained for noise, before slipping down the hallway. He looks carefully into each room, crouched low and pressed flush to the wall. He doesn't see any kind of bust or statue in any of them. 

Dream peers into the main living room towards the front of the house, where a few candles shine in the windows to provide light for the street. The walls are filled with bookcases. Dream’s heart nearly jumps out of his chest when he sees two people slumped on the couch before realizing they’re both dead asleep. They’re half dressed, and Dream can only assume that they’re the Daltons. 

His eyes catch on something on the other side of the room. Sitting under a Watteau painting, on the mantel above the fireplace is a bust of the king. Dream grips the door frame, he might have looked right past it. The bust was shoved up there like any other nicknack, as though it wasn’t made directly in the king’s court. Dream supposed it was a testament to just how fucking rich the Daltons were, or maybe they really didn’t give two shits about politics. 

Dream looks again at the sleeping couple- both of them out like a light. The man was snoring and the woman was curled in a way that made it look like she’d rather be anywhere else. That wasn’t a problem. The problem was that they lay between him and the letter, the letter that apparently could mean the war. 

Dream takes a deep breath before hurriedly crossing the room, cringing at the way the floorboards sigh under his feet. He chances a glance at the couple as his fingers curl around the sculpture, but other than a slight furrow between the woman’s eyes, they show no signs of disturbance. 

He pulls the bust from the mantel, then crosses the room again and slides into the hall and into a room a few doors down. It appeared to be some sort of office, with tall bookcases and shelves stuffed full of inks and quills. Dream sets the bust on the desk, taking a few deep breaths as he fishes the tools from his pockets and sets to work drilling a hole through the bottom. 

It’s a slow process. He feels every minute that goes by like a punch to the gut. He listens to footsteps, to the snores of the sleeping man, to the sounds of horses and patrolling redcoats outside the windows. Sweat drips down his face as he works. 

He doesn't even notice that someone is behind him until there’s a sword pressing the back of his neck. 

There’s no words for the dread that strikes him like a bolt of lightning, that makes his hands still like they’ve been paused. His breath catches in his throat, the slight gasp the only audible thing in the entire house. 

“Whatcha got there?” The voice says in an accent Dream can’t place. He swallows. He had been so, so careful. 

The blade of the sword is cold against the back of his neck. He doesn't say anything. Does not move. 

“Did the king send you? They were only supposed to send me.” The blade pushes a little further into his neck. “I don’t think they’d send you, I’ve never seen you in my life. I was told to take the whole fucking statue, and here you are trying to weasel something out of it.” 

Dream’s eyes flicker across the room, trying to formulate a plan. There’s no way he gets out of this without making a ruckus, and the chances of him getting out at all are incredibly slim. He doesn't even know what the person behind him looks like, who he’s up against. 

“You aren’t working for the crown.” The man says, voice low and sharp. “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect I got a rebel.” 

Dream grits his teeth, hard enough that they feel like they’re about to splinter and crack. The blade pushes in further, drawing a bead of blood. Before he can think too much about it, Dream raises the bust and brings it down on the edge of the desk. 

The king’s head shatters into a million ceramic pieces, dust falling over the floor like ash. He swings around, with the bottom of the broken statue and uses the man’s momentary confusion to crack the rest of the ceramic over his head. 

The man is tall, about the same height as Dream, with a fabric mask that covers everything but his eyes. He stumbles back, clutching the side of his head. Faintly, Dream hears movement from down the hallway as he scoops up the piece of paper buried amongst the shattered remains. 

The man doesn't waste anymore time recovering before he lunges at Dream with the sword . Dream steps back, eyes dark and narrowed. He slips the knives from the garters on his wrists just as the man makes a risky lunge forward, the edge of the sword cutting a neat line from his left brow to his cheek. 

The man grins, hot pain splintering across Dream’s face. But he doesn't falter, dosen’t falter as he pushes the desk roughly into the other man and watches him hit the wall hard enough to pop his shoulder. There’s voices from the hall, high and panicked. Candles flicker on. 

Dream turns and unlatches the window, forcing it open. His breaths are steady beneath the bandana, despite the blood pouring into his left eye. He’ll wriggle himself out of this just as he does everything else. 

He gets one leg out the window before the bang of a gun nearly sends him toppling to the ground. He narrowly catches himself on the lip of the window, and Jesus Christ when did this guy get a  _ gun _ \- 

Dream turns, the blood rushing to his head, and there stands the old man in the doorway, his clothes hastily thrown on and the barrel of the smoking musket pointed just above Dream’s head. He glances up at the hole punched through the drywall and gulps. That could have been his head. 

For a moment the three of them just stare at each other. The man and the old guy breathing rapidly while Dream blinks back blood and fear. The man and the old guy share a look, and that’s all Dream needs to see. 

He topples out the window, landing the short jump easily. Dogs bark, and lights that had previously been out gutter to life. The old man curses as he rips open a cartridge packet with his teeth. Dream books it across the lawn, and then there’s the sting of something landing in his side, hot and sharp. He stumbles as he reaches the wall. The dogs are barking louder. Every light is on, there’s nowhere to hide. 

He stretches out his hand and grabs the top of the brick wall surrounding the estate. Another round of musket fire slams into the wall to his left. Thank God for this man’s terrible aim. 

Dream pulls himself up the wall just as the masked man drops from the window and lands neatly on the lawn. Dream jumps to the other side, clutching at the wound in his side. Bile rises in his throat as his hands finds the handle of a knife. 

“That won’t be the only knife in you once I get my hands on you!” The man shouts from the other side of the wall, and Dream does what he hasn’t done in a long time, had vowed never to do again. 

He runs. 

He runs like the devil is on his heels, runs while the whole city is startled awake. He runs with a knife in his side, his boots pounding the cobblestones and his mask stained with blood. He makes random, hairpin turns down the seediest parts of the city, ravaged by fire and gangs and tinged with brothels and bars. 

He runs through areas that no king’s men would have the courage to step foot in. 

Dream’s vision is going black, fading in and out. His breaths are ragged, each hurting more than the last. But with every turn, ones he makes without any sort of plan, his only goal is to put as much distance between himself and Dalton Manor as possible. 

He passes red coats, who by some stroke of luck ignore him. Civilians watch him hurry past, as he flies past open fires. A few call out to him, a few notice the knife in his side and the blood on his coat but he doesn't stop. 

He hasn’t ran since he left Spanish Florida, all those years ago. With pounds of stolen gold in his pockets and a disappointed family. 

Dream’s wheezes painfully, his side begins to cramp around the knife. His legs flare with pain and he tastes blood in his mouth. But he doesn't stop. 

Now there’s a letter in his pocket, not gold. He’s running through New York, not the everglades. He hasn’t heard the footsteps of the masked man in twenty minutes. 

He can see the tavern with the boarding house. Dream takes another ragged breath, clutches his side even tighter and tries to keep the knife from digging in further or falling out. 

Dream pushes open the door to the tavern, all the lights are out but a single candle. He stumbles inside, into the low light and warmth. 

His face is pressed against the floor. When did he get to the floor? It felt nice to rest, to breathe. He hears a chair scrape against the floor, someone calling his name. Hands run over him, gentle and frantic like a whisper, before he’s being turned over onto his back. He groans in pain, and blinks up at the blurry face above him. The face lets out a gasp at the sight of all the blood. 

George, he realizes. That’s who it is. He almost didn’t recognize him without his red coat. He’s stupidly relieved to see George. 

“I’m gonna need you to stand up, Dream okay? I can’t carry you up the stairs.” His voice is strained, the edges painted with panic and emotion Dream’s never heard before. He reaches up and tries to touch his face. 

George grabs his arm and says, “Just do this one thing for me, okay?” 

Dream nods. “Anything.” 

“Can you stand?” He asks again, and then doesn't wait for an answer as he yanks Dream to his feet with surprising strength. He trips over his feet, his legs like jelly, but George scoops a second arm under him to stabilize him. “I’ve got you.” 

Each step sends a bolt of pain lacing up from his side. Without the adrenaline of the chase, his energy slips between his fingers like grains of sand. 

George heaves him up a stair, and then another. Dream is barely walking, and he has to lean down to hold onto George’s shoulder because of the height difference. Dream puts his foot up for the next one, hissing in pain. George pushes him up the rest of the way. 

“Jesus fucking Christ.” George hisses and Dream’s momentarily taken aback by his language enough that George can push him up another stair. “What the hell were you doing to get  _ stabbed _ ?” 

“I,” Dream pants, his voice doesn't even sound like his. “Got into a bar fight.” 

They heave up another step. There’s only a few more left. “You picked the wrong guy to get into a fight with.” 

Dream laughs, wincing at the fresh flare of agony from his side. George doesn't let him pause to wallow his pain, just hauls him up the last couple of steps and down the hallway. He fumbles with the key in his pocket, and at this point Dream doesn't even think he could tell him his name. If it weren’t for George he wouldn’t even be standing up right now. 

The door clicks open and George pushes it open with his foot. They blindly stumble inside, Dream crashing on the bed as George hurriedly locks the door behind them and lights a candle. Dream hears George shuffling around through the room, muttering words that Dream can’t make out. He watches the crossbeams of the ceiling, wonders why they move like fish in the sea. 

George pulls the bloody bandana from his face and gently removes his hat. Dream takes a deep breath. He hadn’t realized how hard it was to breathe with the soaking thing over his mouth. 

“I’m gonna pull the knife out, okay?” George says and then hands him a slim book. “Bite down on this, okay?” 

Dream looks at the book and laughs. “A bible?” 

“It’s all I got. Just do it, we don’t want all of New York wondering why you’re screaming.” He explains and Dream bites down on the book. “Ready?” 

He nods and George pulls the knife from his side like excalibur. Even with the book, Dream makes enough noise to alert half of New York to where he is. The pain is hot like fire, and it makes his vision go white and all he hears is the old brag of his heart. 

George tosses the knife aside and runs a hand through Dream’s sweaty hair, shushing quietly. He presses a wad of fabric into the hole in his side, but Dream focuses on the hand in his hair and the gentle shushing. It grounds him, brings him back from that high of pain and heat. 

“You’re alright, I got you.” George assures. “Just breathe.” 

In and out, he thinks. In and out. 

It’s barely a minute of this, although it feels like an eternity, before George deems him calm enough to proceed. He presses harshly against the wound with one hand, and reaches for a bottle of whiskey on the desk. “This is gonna hurt again, okay?” 

“Don’t go, George.” 

“I’m right here.” He assures. “Right here.” 

Dream’s vision swims, and as George pulls the fabric out of the wound and pours whiskey into it, his vision goes to black. He can still hear, there’s muttering and hurried assurances before even that is gone and all he knows is bliss. 

An hour later, George leans back. He’s never been more exhausted in his life. He runs a bloodied hand down his face and looks to the clock- 5 am. 

The room looks like a warzone. The sheets are rumpled and bloody, and the curtains are in tatters from where George had used the knife he’d pulled out of Dream to cut strips for bandages. The bed sheets are in the same condition. Dream’s hat and bandana are on the ground, and George’s coat is hanging on the back of the door. At one point he’d knocked over a bottle of ink, and the puddle of darkness on the floor reminds him of the blood on his hands. Dream’s blood. 

He rechecks the bandages, but they’re neat and tight. They had all been given basic first aid training back in England, because the doctors and nurses were usually pretty far from the battlefield. He was well acquainted with stab wounds, on account of all the bayonet punctures he’d had to deal with. He had seen much worse than Dream’s. He’d be alright. 

Still, George was shaken. He had been up, pouring over an assignment and unable to focus in his room. He had assumed Dream was asleep in his own room, and then he had come barreling through the door bleeding a quart of blood a minute. George didn’t know what to think. 

He looks to Dream, asleep on his bed. His eyebrows were furrowed and creased in residue pain and George reaches out to soothe the spot before he can think better of it. Dream’s face relaxes and he leans into his hand. George’s heart stutters. 

He gets up to wet a cloth and wipe the blood from his face. The cut across his face was shallow and had already stopped bleeding, but it would leave a nasty scar. He wipes the dried blood as carefully as he can, fearful of waking him up. There’s a fondness in the gesture that George doesn't want to think about. 

He watches the rise and fall of Dream’s chest as light steadily seeps in from the ruined curtains. He doesn't move until he’s confident that Dream isn’t about to suddenly die, and even then he doesn't move until he can hear people having breakfast downstairs and the sun is spilling golden light through the window. 

Methodically, he begins cleaning the room. First by removing whatever bloodstains he can, then the ink stain by the desk. He tosses out Dream’s ruined bandana (he’ll try and get him another one) and picks up his green coat. He runs a hand over the worn fabric, the color more of a pale-yellow than green to him. Dream wore it everywhere, to the point that George thought every green coat was Dream. There’s a circle of blood on the side of the coat, and a tear where the knife went through. George pokes his finger through it, and something falls from the pocket. 

Frowning, George bends down to pick it up. There’s a broken bright red seal- the official seal of the crown. He drops it as if his fingers were singed. The sound the paper makes as it lands on the floor is louder than a crack of thunder. 

George looks around, but Dream is still asleep. He purses his lips and picks it up again, his hands shaking just slightly as he unfolds it. George’s eyes race across the words, and his mouth falls open. He stumbles back into the chair, his legs giving out as he reads it over and over again, as if the words will change. 

The words don’t change. The bottom is signed by His Majesty. 

He looks at Dream- Dream who he’d always assumed was just a disillusioned farmer with a fantasy idea of freedom and rebellion. Dream, who he’d assumed had read  _ Common Sense  _ and thought it the best piece of literature ever put on the market. Dream, who despite everything, George had figured was harmless, harboring ideas that would never come to fruition. 

But now he’s got a piece of paper in his hands, signed by His Majesty and it came from Dream’s pocket. Dream had almost died for this piece of information. George’s stomach twists like someone had plunged a knife into him, as he remembers their conversation from weeks ago;  _ “But if I find, anything- anything, Dream. It’s over.”  _

He laughs dryly. Now look at him. 

He wants to cry. He didn’t tell the major about Dream because he honestly thought Dream was harmless. George had thought he was stupid and innocuus and mislead, and despite his better judgement George had gone and gotten attached. 

He looks at Dream now, his face placate. The early morning sunlight falls over his freckles and turns his hair golden. The thin line of red across his face is already healing, and his bare chest rises and falls with every breath. George’s grip tightens on the paper. Despite everything he  _ still  _ sees him as harmless. 

Maybe it’s the bandages, or the blood. Or maybe it’s something George doesn't want to poke with a ten-foot pole. 

He closes the seal and stuffs the paper back into the pocket of Dream’s coat. He folds the coat, and sets it by the end of the bed and takes a deep breath. 

And then, he goes for a walk and forgets he ever saw the paper. 


	4. Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw// very very brief mention of slavery

George returns to the inn half an hour later, his mind just as cloudy and jumbled as when he left. 

During the walk, New York had seemed off. There had been even more British soldiers on the streets, pulling civilians aside left and right, asking about a thief in a green coat. The civilians were on edge, they pressed close together and gave the soldiers a wide berth. The morning air stunk of manure and ash. 

When he walks back into the inn, Eret is glaring at him from the other side of the counter. George ducks his head and weaves through the crowd towards the stairs in the back. The very last thing he wanted to do was talk to Eret. 

Eret however, had different ideas. Appearing from seemingly nowhere, Eret grabs onto his sleeve. George flinches back at the touch, yanking his wrist back. 

Eret sighs, “George-” 

“I don’t wish to speak with you at the moment.” He says thickly. 

“That’s fine.” Eret says. “What I want to know is why there was blood by the door and someone was screaming at three in the morning, and why I haven’t seen Dream.” 

George narrows his eyes. “Why do you think I would know the answer to that? It’s not my job to babysit Dream.” 

Eret raises an eyebrow. Of all the accusations he’d just pointed at George, why is it the one about Dream he latched onto? Eret shakes his head, if that was the button he needed to press then he’d press it. “Where’s Dream?” 

“I said don’t know.” 

“You’re a horrible liar, George.” 

And as if a pin’s been removed, George deflates. He rubs his face and looks around the room. No one was watching them and he was so tired. 

“You’re good with a needle, right?” 

Eret’s expression hardens. “Why?” 

Wordlessly, George turns up the stairs, already regretting this decision. He and Eret had been through a lot, whether they wanted to talk about it or not. Eret had gotten himself into some trouble during the invasion of New York, George had pulled him out of it. Then the higher ups found Eret with a paper from the Sons of Liberty and everything had gone to shit. George pulled him out of that too. 

He didn’t like Eret, but he could trust him. Right now, Dream needed someone who could stitch the wound in his side, something that was beyond George’s limited medical capabilities. 

He stops outside the door to his room, his eyes narrowed. “Not. A. Word.” 

Eret nods silently and George unlocks the door, pushing Eret inside quickly before locking the door behind them. His heart pounds as he reads Eret’s expression, the brief shock at the blood stains that George hadn’t been able to get out, the state of the room, and of course Dream shirtless and covered in bandages on the bed, still passed out. 

“He needs stitches.” George says into the silence. “And I don’t have anything or, I don’t know how-” 

Eret whirls on him, confusion and fury spitting off him like heat. “What in God’s name happened?” 

George raises his hands. “He says he got into a bar fight and picked the wrong guy. I don’t really know. But he needs stitches, and you’re the only person I can trust to do so.” 

Eret raises an eyebrow. “ _ I’m  _ the only person you can trust? Why didn’t you just go get a doctor.” 

“No!” George hisses, and he says it a bit too quickly, with a bit too much desperation in his voice. 

“No?” Eret repeats. “George, he’s bleeding like Caesar all over your room.” 

George’s eyes narrow. He couldn’t call a doctor. They would hear the rumors going around about a thief who’d been stabbed, and it wouldn’t take much to put two and two together. He’d do it if he had to. He’d do it for Dream in a heartbeat. But he didn’t need to, not if Eret agreed. 

“You still owe me.” He says. 

“I’m letting you two stay in these rooms. For free.” 

“And I saved your life whether you want to admit it or not. I kept my mouth shut and I helped you get out. I’m asking you to save his life now, and afterwards we never have to talk to each other again.” 

Eret looks at him, and a long moment passes. It reminds George terribly of his first night in Dream’s home, of the long and strenuous silence and the eye contact that made him feel like he was burning up inside. Deep down, he already knew what Eret was going to say. He might have hated George, but he didn’t know a thing about Dream, and Eret wasn’t one to let someone else die when he could do something about it. 

Eret exhales loudly, blowing his bangs out of his face. “Fine. But I’m not doing it for you.” 

George nearly slumps forward, almost allowing the exhaustion and relief to overtake him. Eret is still looking between him and Dream like he’s trying to put two and two together. George holds firm, and eventually Eret leaves to go grab the sutures and supplies. 

George stuffs the coat and the letter under the bed, where Eret will never see it before he pulls the chair from the desk to the side of the bed and allows himself a moment to breathe. Dream will be okay. Eret might be able to realize that Dream is the thief, but he and Dream are working on the same team, right? He won’t rat them out. 

He looks at Dream’s sleeping face, and even in sleep he looks worried and stressed. This time George stamps down on the urge to reach out and touch him, to push his long hair back from his face. He takes the urge and he buries it deep down, crushes it under the heel of his boot like a bug. 

Eret returns and George gives him the chair. He washes his hands and pours alcohol over the needle before unwrapping the bandages George had carefully applied. He tries not to wince as the closer to the wound they get, the bloodier the bandages get. He does cringe when Eret removes the last bandage, glued to Dream’s skin with blood. 

He watches as the needle moves in and out of his skin. Dream makes a few disconcerted sounds of pain that makes George’s heart clench, but he never wakes up. When he’s done, Eret rewraps his torso in bandages (proper bandages, not strips of curtain and sheets), and secures it with a clip. 

“You’ll have to take them out in a couple of weeks. Can you do that?” 

“Yeah.” George says. He probably can’t, but they’ll cross that bridge when they get there. “Sorry about the room.” 

“It’s all right. It needed new sheets and curtains anyways.” 

George shifts from foot to foot. He still isn’t wearing his red coat. “Is he gonna be okay?” 

Eret nods and stands, walking towards the sink to wash his hands again. “Yeah. He’ll be alright. His mobility will be pretty limited the next few weeks.” 

George can’t help but think that maybe it’s for the best. Maybe it’ll keep him out of danger, at least for a little bit. “Thank you.” He says, a little breathlessly and a little quieter than what Eret deserves. 

He gives George an odd look. “You’re playing a dangerous game.” 

His jaw clenches. “I know.” 

“No one is going to pull you out of it if things go to hell.” He explains. “Wilbur sure as hell won’t, I’m a traitor now. And can you really trust him?” He nods his chin towards Dream. 

George burns at the accusation. Of course he can trust Dream! He hadn’t told the major about some of the less than perfect things George has said about the King and the army. Dream was kind and brave, too kind and brave to rat George out. 

But with these thoughts comes a blinding realization, that Eret might be right. Up until a few days ago he and Dream could scarcely be in the same room as each other, but something had shifted. 

Dream had asked him if he was tired of being pushed around, of being used. He hadn’t been able to answer, and he still wasn’t sure he could. But he did know that he was tired, and he knew that despite everything he cared about the stupid farmer. Maybe he just didn’t want Patches to be lonely, or maybe he just didn’t want to go back to living in White Hall Manor. 

“Thank you.” He says again, instead of answering. “We’ll be out of your hair as soon as he’s able to travel.” 

Eret purses his lips but nods. “Alright.” 

Eret’s hand on the doorknob, but before he can leave George says, “Not a word, right?” 

Eret meets his eyes. “Not a word.” 

Dream did not snap awake. Consciousness came to him slowly, like a bucket of water being filled drop by drop. He first notices the discomfort, the pain that drags at his stomach like a fresh wound. Then the warmth of sunlight across his face, and the quiet sound of someone moving around as though they are scared of waking him up. 

He shifts slightly, and the movement makes the pain in his side flare like fire. He groans, his hands moving to the spot where it hurts as he pulls his eyes open. He blinks against the glare of afternoon sunlight and looks down at himself, at the tapestry of bandages covering his chest and torso. 

He wakes up a little at that, and tries to push himself up into a sitting position before someone is at his side, gently pressing him back into the bed. He scrunches his eyes, George is haloed by the afternoon light. It makes his dark hair turn to gold, and his face is creased with concern. He looks different without his red coat. 

George is saying something, and it takes a moment for Dream to recognize it as his name. Over and over again. 

George’s name is on the tip of his tongue, he’s already forming the word when the memories strike him like a bolt of lightning- the broken statue with the letter inside, the masked man, the musket firing above his head, the knife in his side, running and running. 

Now, consciousness slaps him across the face. He bolts upwards before George can stop him, glancing around desperately. 

“Dream?” 

He doesn't even know what he’s looking for until he says. “My coat?” His voice cracks, raw from misuse. “Where’s my coat?” 

George’s face twists at the mention of the coat, but the expression is gone so quickly Dream thinks he’s imagined it. “It’s at the foot of the bed, I had to wash the blood out of it.” 

Dream’s heart clenches. He can’t even hide the panic in his voice as he asks, half breathless, “You washed it?” 

“Of course.” He says gently. “It was horrid.” 

He doesn't know what to say. “Oh.” 

“I cleaned up your,” George gestures vaguely, “wound.” 

His hand instinctively goes to his side, and the smallest bit of pressure makes him wince. “Thanks.” 

George nods. He looks exhausted, his cheeks hallowed from hunger and dark bags under his eyes. There was blood under his fingernails he hadn’t been able to get out. Dream swallows. 

“We should leave New York as soon as we can.” George explains, and he isn’t looking at Dream as he says it. 

He studies the side of George’s face, his expression unreadable. Dream wants his coat like a kid wants a blanket, he wants the letter in it, but more than anything he wants to maybe bury himself inside of the coat again. He can’t remember the last time he fell asleep with someone else, the last time someone else bandaged a wound for him. Can’t remember the last time he woke up and he wasn’t alone. He longed for the comfort of the mask and the coat, even his stupid hat. He’d never been like this with anybody, and there was still an ocean between them that neither seemed to want to cross. 

“Dream?” George asks, and  _ oh _ . Now he’s looking at him. 

He blinks. “I don’t want to leave New York.” Didn’t want to leave this. 

George sighs. “We gotta go back to the town. You and I both.” 

Dream frowns, still half delirious. There’s an edge of pain that if he leans too far into he’ll be lost in. “No we don’t. We could stay here. Someone could take over my farm, it’d be okay.” 

George shakes his head. “I’m a soldier, Dream. I can’t just leave.” 

“Men do it all the time.” 

“Yes, and then they’re  _ hanged _ .” George rolls his eyes. 

Dream smiles. “You’re considering it.” 

“I hate New York.” 

“Fine, we’ll go to Philadelphia. Or Connecticut, or Virginia. Anywhere you want.” 

George shakes his head fondly. “You should go back to sleep.” 

He didn’t want to go back to sleep, but his eyes were already falling shut. “George?” 

“Yeah?” 

His eyes fall shut, exhaustion and pain pulling him under as he breathes out a muffled, “Thank you.” 

George leans forward, eyes wide. “What?” 

But Dream is already gone. 

He spends the last two days of their trip in George’s room, recovering. He watches the street from the window, fascinated by the way people go about their lives in the city. It’s so different from that of the town, where people are late to rise and early to sleep. In New York there’s always someone on the street, and in the morning the street is filled with carriages and horses. At lunch the cafe across the street is packed with women, and at night the tavern is filled with men and soldiers. 

During those two days, George comes in and out of the room seemingly at random. Sometimes he’s gone for minutes, other times hours. Everytime he comes back he asks Dream how he’s doing, if he needs anything. He brings him the newspaper. Sometimes he goes with his redcoat, other times he seems to try his best to look like a civilian. Dream doesn't ask about it, George didn’t seem keen on being recognized. 

The morning of their departure George rescues Dream’s wagon and horses from Colonel Cooke’s estate, and gathers their things from both their rooms. Dream does his best to help, but every step sends a stab of pain lacing through his side. 

“I still don’t wanna go.” He says, slipping his feet into his boots. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, and Dream bends down to tighten his boots when his side protests the movement and he sits back, hissing in pain. 

George looks up from his suitcase, then down towards Dream’s shoes and back up to his face. Dream bends down to try again, his right hand clutching his side, when George gently pushes him back. “I’ll get those.” 

Dream pushes his hands away. “No, no. You’ve done enough.” 

“Dream, it obviously hurts. Just let me do it.” 

“George-” 

George gives him a look, the one Dream can’t argue with. Dream sighs, and leans back as George adjusts the boot and Dream tries hard to ignore the proximity and their positions. They don’t say anything as George’s hands work quickly, but both their faces are flushed, their hearts pounding. 

Dream is relieved when it’s over, and takes a deep breath when George leans back. He’s torn between wanting to put as much distance between them as possible and wanting George closer. 

Either way, he knows what it means when his heart pounds like that. Knows that absolutely nothing good could come of this. 

“Are you ready to go?” 

“Yeah.” Dream says, swallowing nervously. “Just let me grab my coat.” 

George stills. “You probably shouldn’t wear your coat until we’re out of New York.” 

He frowns. “What why?” 

“It’s not very cold out.” George explains, his words rushing together. “You won’t need it until we’re in Long Island.” 

Dream shakes his head. “No, it’ll be fine. I look better with it.” 

He reaches for it and George pulls it away. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” 

“Come on, George it’s fine.” He reaches it for it again. 

This time George yanks it away. “Jesus you never listen to me! Just don’t wear it!” 

It’s like he’s been slapped. “I don’t see how it’s such a big deal!” 

George grits his teeth, here they were back to stage one. It takes everything in him not to explode, because for all of Dream’s brains, he could be infinitely stupid at times. How did he not realize that the whole city was looking for him? They were looking for a man in a green coat and a three-point hat with blonde hair and a stab wound in the side. The checkpoints around the city were so heavily monitored, there was no way Dream would go by unnoticed if he was wearing that stupid coat. 

“Because there’s blood all over it! You look like you just stepped out of the butcher’s. They’ll ask us questions at the checkpoints.”  _ And I’ll only be able to help you so much _ . 

Realization dawns in Dream’s eyes. They go wide with understanding and his mouth snaps shut. He looks away from George, frowning. 

“Fine.” 

It takes a momentous effort just to get Dream down the stairs and out into the street, then another momentous effort for him to climb into the wagon. He grits his teeth. He hated having to rely on someone like this, hated looking helpless. 

George offers to hold the reins and steer them out of the city, but Dream puts his foot down at that. “You’ve done too much. I can direct the stupid horses.” 

Thankfully, George doesn't argue. But Dream doesn't miss the odd look he gives the tavern keeper as they go. 

They’ve barely gone a block, and already Dream has seen more redcoats then he remembers ever seeing in his life. They fill the streets like an infestation, every third person or so is a British soldier. They pull people aside, ask them questions, hassle the women. 

“Why are there so many?” Dream whispers after George nods at a pair of soldiers on the sidewalk. 

George looks ahead resolutely but speaks the next words like he’s bored, like it’s old news. “They’re looking for a thief who broke into a Colonel’s house. Apparently he stole something pretty important.” 

Dream’s stomach plummets, and his hand instinctively curls around his side. Did George- no. There was no way. He would have turned him in. 

His mouth feels like cotton. “Well I hope they find him.” 

George nods stiffly. “I do too.” 

At the first checkpoint on the outskirts of the city, George thankfully does most of the talking. The movement of the cart is painful and Dream feels each pothole and bump in the road like a hammer to a nail. His face, normally tanned and bright with color goes pale, almost green. 

A redcoat in a wig stops them. He looks at the both of them carefully, eyes them up and down. Dream removes his hand from his side, sits up a little straighter. 

Eventually the soldier asks, “Name?” 

“Lieutenant Evans, 31st Regiment.” George says before Dream can even open his mouth, and slides over a stack of documents. 

The soldier looks at George, ignoring Dream. “Lieutenant, eh? Came to New York to see the Colonel?” 

“Indeed.” 

The soldier shrugs, and hands back the papers with barely a glance. Being a lieutenant makes things easier, Dream supposes. 

George shoves the papers back into his bag as the soldier says, “Hey, watch out for a guy in a green coat, yeah? I heard they’ve placed a big bounty on his head and he’s super dangerous.” 

George’s eye twitches. “What did he do?” 

The soldier shrugs. “Stole from some rich people, they think he’s either a patriot or a pirate.” 

George shakes his head. “Both are sinners.” 

Dream’s gut twists at the word choice. He stares resoletley at the cobblestones and the long line of travelers in front of them.

The soldier laughs, reaching into his pocket. “Cheers to that. Here, take this. It should get you through the next few checkpoints without a problem.” 

George takes the pass from him and dips his head in respect. “Thank you.” 

The soldier nods. “Carry on, sir.” 

Dream flicks the reigns and the two old horses carry on. A cold autumn wind blows between the gaps in the buildings, ruffling their hair beneath their hats. Dream’s hand returns to his side, but he cracks a smile to relieve some of the tension. “‘Sir’ huh?” 

George groans. “Don’t ever bring that up again.” 

Dream wheezes, doubling over in laughter despite the rush of pain it brings. George’s small smile and huff of laughter is worth it. 

With the pass, they make it through the next few checkpoints with ease, neither of them miss how the soldiers pull aside most of the young men and barrage them with questions. The taste in Dream’s mouth sours. George  _ has  _ to know. 

The subject eats at him like a knife whittling away at a carving. They’re far from New York City, buried in the dense forests of the surrounding land. The weather is nearly identical to when they made the journey to New York, all bright blue skies and cloudless. More of the leaves have been knocked off by the wind, and the trees are a little more bare. 

Dream hikes up his shirt to stare at his bandages after they hit another particularly painful pothole, George apologizing under his breath. He half-expects to find blood seeping through, but the stitches hold tight. 

“You don’t have to keep checking those.” George says. “They’re tight.” 

Dream lowers his shirt reluctantly. “You’re a mystery, George.” 

He shrugs. “I could say the same for you.” 

Dream sighs. There it was. “George-” 

“You shouldn’t steal Dream. What did you even take?” 

His words are like a punch across the face. How long has George known? Why did he help him? Why did he hide him in his room and stitch his wound shut when it would be so much easier to turn him in and get a weighty sack of gold in return? 

Dream can’t look at George or it’ll all come tumbling out. “I stole a sculpture. Or, I tried to. It broke when the guy caught me.” 

George scoffs. “A sculpture?” 

“Yeah. Of the King.” 

“I see.” 

The silence stretches uncomfortably. Dream catches a brief glimpse of the ocean before the trees swallow it back up. He picks at a hangnail. “Why didn’t you turn me in?” 

“Maybe I hate the rich too, Dream.” 

Dream laughs. “Alright, lobsterback.” 

George flicks the reins again as the old horses start to slow. “We’re not all rich bastards. I joined up because I had no other choice.” 

This catches Dream’s attention. He’s taken the whole “stealing” thing remarkably well and he’ll latch onto information George has to offer about himself. “Why’s that?” 

George shrugs. “My family had nothing in London. I got caught stealing food, they promised not to send me to jail if I joined up. I was seventeen then, and now I’m twenty-three. I’ve more than paid off the debt, but I don’t have anything to return to in England.” 

Dream’s jaw drops. “ _ You  _ got caught stealing?” 

George smiles, trying not to laugh. “I was starved.” 

Dream shakes his head, laughing. “Here I was thinking you were some British gentleman who came from an estate in,” he pauses, trying to think of a name of a British city but all he comes up with is, “Harhampton.” 

George laughs. “That’s not even a real place. Now you’re just being mean.” 

“Oh, come on! It totally sounds like a real place.” 

“It absolutely does not.” 

Dream wheezes and George laughs alongside him. They’re halfway between New York and home, and he’s starting to think it’s all gonna be okay. 

He probably spoke too soon.

Dream stands over the rowboat, still buried under the tarp and leaves, bobbing gently against the riverbank. The crescent moon hangs over the forest, a handful of stars scattered across the sky and reflecting back in the muddy water. 

He was panting slightly, just from walking through the forest from his house to where the boat was kept. His side twisted in agony with every step, and now as he stands still, leaning against a cottonwood, it aches sharply with each beat of his heart. 

Dream stares at the boat, then through the trees, down the creek and to the ocean that stretches onward towards the east. The waves move against one another, and it reminds him of a great bowl of water being sloshed around back and forth. 

Oddly, it makes him think of the Navy. The Battle of Valcour Island had gone terribly, the small American Navy almost wiped out. The news hadn’t reached General Arnold in time. The only silver lining was that the British had been unable to reach the Hudson River Valley. Dream didn’t think he had himself to thank for that. He squishes down the disappointment in his gut. 

The rowboat bobs innocently. He didn’t know if Sapnap would be waiting for him in Connecticut or not, but the longer he stares at the little boat and the wide mouth of the ocean while feeling the stitches pull at his side, he comes to realize there’s no possible way he rows himself to Connecticut. 

“Shit.” 

He pulls off his hat, runs a hand through his hair which he now kept tied back. The news, while not urgent, couldn’t wait either. But rowing across the sound would be suicide in his condition, and he’d already given up so much for this intel, he couldn’t just throw it away. “Shit.” He says again, just because it feels like the right thing to say. 

With a sigh, Dream turns around and begins the journey back to the farm. He doesn't bother to hide his slight limp as he stumbles through the forest, still clutching his side. He’ll have Nikki signal for Sapnap to come to him. It’ll be alright. 

It takes him almost an hour to walk back. Dream has to stop frequently, panting against a tree and frantically pulling up his shirt to see if he’s bleeding through the bandages. He trusts George’s work, of course he does, but he knew he was pushing his own limits. Thread and bandages only went so far. 

He could cry in relief by the time the woods open up into the clearing where his farm is. The fields are empty now, just upturned earth strewn with autumn leaves. The lights in his house are out, and vaguely he can smell smoke from the fire he’d lit in the fireplace earlier. It was such a stark contrast to New York, now he had nothing but land and he could see the stars. 

Dream stumbles in, and listens carefully for George. After a few minutes he’s certain he’s asleep. Once again he lifts his shirt and unwraps the bandages, breathing a sigh of relief when he finds the bandages clean. The neat line of stitches looks just as it did in the morning. 

He falls asleep on the chair by the fireplace, and George doesn't wake him in the morning. 

Three nights later he’s sitting a mile away from the town at a little outcrop facing the sea, waiting for a rowboat. He sits on the dirt, his back pressed to a tree as he pokes at his side- a bad habit he was quickly developing. George kept telling him off for it. 

George. Again and again his thoughts circle back to him. He is always in the back of his mind, a persistent itch he can’t scratch. Dream doesn't really try to get rid of the thoughts, he allows them to come and go naturally. He knows he should fight it, because George was a British soldier and he was a Patriot spy and they were both men, but fighting the feeling was so much worse than just sinking into it. 

Dream fiddles with his bandana. He had gotten a new one after bleeding over the other one, and the cut on his face had mostly healed. He’d have a bright white scar for the rest of his life, carved from the edge of his temple to his cheek. George said it made him look like a criminal. 

A flash of movement drags Dream from his thoughts. A small boat about half a mile out, barely visible in the silver moonlight. He watches it bob on the waves, pulling closer to land. His heart tightens with hope at the same time he reaches for a knife. He stands with a grunt, and hides himself in the trees until the boat gently bumps into the shore. The man inside gets out, cursing when the frigid water laps over his ankles. 

Dream stands up to his full height, and walks over to the boat. Sapnap doesn't say anything as Dream peers inside at the bundle of furs in the hull, he raises his eyebrows and glances at his friend fuitley attempting to drag the boat further onshore. 

Dream reaches down and pulls out one of the pelts, soft to the touch. It reminds him of Patches, but the thought twists his stomach uncomfortably and he sets it back with the others. 

“Beaver?” He asks Sapnap as he finally gives up on the boat, opting to collapse onto the shore. The pebbles dig uncomfortably into his back. 

“Nah, it’s otter.” Sapnap says, picking up a pebble and chucking it at Dream’s head. It bounces harmlessly off Dream’s hat. 

Dream lightly kicks the side of the boat, ignoring the now familiar twinge of pain. “That stuff isn’t worth what it once was.” 

“God, I know. But I got a guy a few miles down who’ll buy it from me for more than it’s worth.” 

Dream snorts. “Does Techno know about your side business?” 

“No.” Sapnap tosses another pebble at him, this one hitting his arm. “He doesn't have to know everything.” 

“He’s the head of intelligence.” 

“Yeah, yeah. He’s only got a few more rocks in his brain pan than you and I.” Sapnap laughs, sitting up. “Speaking of which, did you get the letter?” 

Dream carefully lowers himself to sit beside his friend, doing his best to hide the pain. “Sure did.” 

Sapnap beams as Dream fishes the letter from his pocket and hands it over. Sapnap devours it, his eyes widening comically as his mouth drops open. “You’re shitting me.” He laughs. “Phil really pulled through.” 

Dream laughs. “ _ I  _ really pulled through. I took a knife to the side for that.” 

Sapnap sputters, nearly dropping the letter. “You what?” 

Dream lifts his shirt, revealing the line of bandages. “They had some elite guy commissioned for the crown to track down the bust, we chose the same night to get it out.” 

“Shit.” Sapnap shakes his head. “That means Phil is done for.” 

Dream purses his lips. “Probably.” 

Sapnap reads it again, his hand tracing over the king’s signature like he can’t believe it. Dream has read the message a dozen times, and he still isn’t sure if the signature is legit. Deep down, he knows it is. Techno only works with the best. 

Sapnap whistles. “The old man across the sea is bankrupt a year and a half into this shitshow. Now he’s asking the caribbean slave owners to produce even more sugar to make up for it? Stupid.” 

Dream shakes his head. “I heard he’s crazy.” 

“You know what this means?” 

“That he’s crazy? We knew that when he passed the Sugar Act twelve years ago.” Sapnap explains, and he’s sort of breathless and his words are slurring together the way they always do when he gets excited. “Washington can start asking for allies.” 

Dream had thought the same thing, but his eyes widened nonetheless. “ _ International  _ allies?” 

Sapnap nods, grinning. “Man, I’ve gotta go. I’m real sorry about your side by the way. Did you get it fixed up?” 

Dream looks away, tries not to think about George’s shaking hands on his skin. “Yeah.” 

Sapnap scoffs. “Was it a confidential source?” 

“Of course.” Dream says, a little too quickly. 

Sapnap doesn't press it. Maybe he was in too much of a rush because he nearly trips over his own feet trying to get the boat back into the water. 

“Hey what about your pelts?” Dream calls after him.   
“What? Oh, I’ll deal with those later. I’ve got a letter signed by His Majesty.” He waves it in the air like it's a winning hand of cards and Dream tries not to think about the way it almost falls into the water. 

He shoves the boat with his shoulders and hops in. “Good luck! Be careful with that wound. I’ll let Techno know you’re out of commision for a bit.” 

Dream stands hastily, holding his side. “There’s no need!” 

Sapnap just laughs, rowing with his back to the sea. “Take the break, Dream. Lord knows you need it.” 

Dream shakes his head. He waves as Sapnap disappears, already too far to be heard. He watches until the boat disappears, filled with enough contraband to send him to the gallows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> \- slight inaccuracy with this one, the French didn't join the Continental Army until 1778, so although it's entirely possible Britain was already asking for financial aid in 1776, I probably rushed the timeline a little.  
> \- medicine back then was pretty different from what it is now, but the process of stitching a wound has been around since 3000 BC  
> \- The Sugar Act was passed in 1764 to end the smuggling of sugar and molasses from the French and Dutch West Indies in order to increase British revenue in the colonies to pay for the seven years war  
> \- The fur trade was a huge part of the North American industry beginning about 1599, but it had died down significantly by 1763 because fur had gone mostly out of fashion and animals had become really hard to trap.
> 
> Also if you wanna say hi my tumblr is @/peachycompany which is not at all an mcyt account but hey it's there


	5. Chapter V

October bleeds into November, and with it comes the first true cold front of the year. It rolls off the sea, heavy with moisture that traps the cold in the air like a flame in a lantern. Dream buys himself a new coat, this one just as green as the last despite the look George gives him when he walks through the front door with it on. 

“It’s warm!” Dream protests and George just shakes his head, hiding his smile. 

With the harvest done and a long ways until he has to start thinking about planting, Dream’s life quiets. He and George fall into an easy routine, where George leaves early and comes back late, while Dream spends all day fixing the house and the shed, cleaning, hunting food for winter, anything to occupy his time. He spends a lot of the day sitting, allowing the wound in his side to recover. 

One night when the sky is void of moon and stars, so cold that frost creeps up the window, George stands in front of him while he’s reading. Dream isn’t really paying attention, and he’s grateful for the distraction George provides. 

He sets down his book and gives George his best smile. “Hi.” 

Never one to beat around the bush, George says, “I’ve gotta pull your stitches out.” 

Dream’s smile falls and he opens his book again. “I’m very busy, George.” 

“I’m sure  _ The Dunciad  _ is incredibly enthralling.” He says, stealing the book from his hands and setting it aside. “But we’ve waited too long to take those out.” 

Dream groans. “Do we have to?” 

“Would you rather your body absorb them?” 

He groans again. Well, when he puts it like  _ that _ ... “Fine. But only for you, George.” 

George grins. “Stay here.” He walks back into the kitchen and Dream rolls his eyes. As if he were going anywhere. George removes something from a pot on the stove and Dream has to crane his neck to see him wipe down a crude pair of scissors. Dream’s eyes flit to the door. 

He takes a deep breath. This is fine. They needed to come out and he’s pretty sure George is more capable than he is for the job. He slides off his shirt, cringing at the pain and the way the stitches pull at his skin. 

A few minutes later George sits down in front of him. He sets a lantern by the chair so he can see the stitches better and Dream swallows his nervousness, both for what’s about to happen and also because George is so close. He doesn't think he’ll ever get used to having George close. 

“I’m gonna clean the wound first okay?” George asks, holding up a cloth. He waits for Dream to nod before gently wiping the crooked line of stitches where the knife had once gone in. He’s careful, almost painfully so. Like he’s afraid Dream is gonna break. 

George’s hand accidentally brushes Dream’s skin and he flinches as if he’s been burned. George draws back immediately. 

“Oh God I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” 

Dream shivers. What was wrong with him? This hadn’t happened last time. Then again, he had been pretty blissed out on pain and waning adrenaline back then. Now, he was painfully sober. 

George’s face was drawn in concern and Dream swallows again, his mouth thick as cotton as he tries to speak. “Sorry. Do you have anything,” he gestured vaguely, “for the pain?” 

George shakes his head sadly. “You should have seen the look I got when I went around asking for laudanum.” He laughs. “They’re saving that for the soldiers.” 

Dream nods silently and George finishes cleaning the wound. His hands don’t brush Dream’s skin this time. 

“Alright.” George says, setting aside the cloth. He draws a chair from the kitchen and positions himself so he can lean over the wound. “This is going to be the hard part, okay? I’ll be as quick as I can. If I do it right it shouldn’t hurt.” 

“Alright.” Dream says, trying to look anywhere but George. George tugs at the knot on the first stitch with a pair of tweezers. The pressure borders on uncomfortable as George slips the pair of scissors under the knot and cuts it. Dream’s grip tightens as George pulls the string through. The feeling is odd, but it doesn't hurt. 

“Alright?” George asks, his eyes searching Dream’s face. 

“Yeah, I’m okay. Keep going.” 

George nods and leans so close to the wound that Dream can feel his breath against his skin as he gently repeats the process. Dream tilts his head back and stares at the cross beams holding up the ceiling, trying to ignore the pull of the stitches and George’s hands grazing his side. 

On the fourth or fifth stitch he does something wrong. Dream was beginning to grow used to the awkward feeling of the string sliding out of his skin and the cold press of scissors. George cuts the knot and slides out the stitch when the knot snags in his skin. 

George pulls it out before he realizes what’s happened, rupturing the skin. Dream’s grip tightens as he violently flinches back. He pushes George’s hands away, panting as his other hand holds his side. Dizzying pain rushes to his head. 

“Dream?” George asks, voice tight with concern. “Dream? What happened? Did I hurt you?”

Dream scoots away from him as blood coats his fingers. He looks down at his hand and George notices the blood too. He leans forward with a gasp, grabbing bandages, and Dream scoots even further away. 

“Dream-” 

“George, stop. I’ll do it. It’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine! You’re  _ bleeding _ for Christ’s sake.” His voice is all tight with worry in the way that Dream hates. But his hands feel like fire against his skin, and now he’s bleeding and he’s never been good at this. He’s spent his entire life nearly by himself, shrugging off the responsibilities that came with having people to care for. He wasn’t used to being touched, couldn’t remember the last time someone had done so without hurting him. 

Now George was looking at him with those stupid mismatched eyes, softened with worry and concern. His head spun with pain, and dammit now he was bleeding  _ again _ . 

“I’ll do it.” He says again, chest heaving. There’s a careful foot of distance between them. 

“Dream, please.” George pleads. “Just let me help you. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll never do it again.” 

He wants to go back. George had saved his life, that night in New York. George knew he’d been the thief and he hadn’t told anyone, and he hadn’t told anyone about their vehement arguing either, arguing that could very well be considered treasonous. Time and time again George had shown Dream that he could trust him. 

The blood seeps between his fingers and despite everything, it’s still the same color as George’s coat. 

Dream looks up and finally meets George’s eyes, and the sincerity and raw emotion makes his thoughts stutter to a halt. 

George had given him so much. What had he done? Bled all over him? Been rude? He takes a deep breath. George isn’t even wearing his uniform. 

Slowly, he moves his hands from his side. George doesn't move, and he treats Dream like a startled animal. He slowly inches closer, and Dream nods so imperceptibly that anyone else would have missed it. But George exhales like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. 

This time when he touches Dream he doesn't pull away, despite the instinctual urge rising up like a bile. He doesn't sink into George’s touch, not like how he did in New York, but he allows it. He releases a trembling breath. 

George presses the cloth to his side, absorbing the blood. It isn’t even very much. Dream was probably overreacting. 

He waits until it stops bleeding before pulling out the last two stitches. The pressure is familiar, and he doesn't miss how careful George is. How his hands have started shaking. Dream leans his head back again, staring at the ceiling and listening to his pounding heart and the crackle of the fire. 

After a millenia, George pulls back with a sigh. Dream can’t bring himself to look at him, but he can sense George quietly collecting himself beside him. 

When he speaks, it’s half-breathless. “Thank you.” 

Dream blinks, traces a pattern in the ceiling with his eyes. 

“You can uh,” George says with a huff of awkwardness, “let go of me know.” 

He looks down to find his hand gripping George’s thigh like his life depends on it. Like he would drown without him. He snatches his hand back, cheeks red. 

“Sorry.” He says again.

“Did…” George pauses, trying to find the words. “Did something happen? In the past?” 

“Probably.” Dream looks at the new scar in his side instead of at George. “I’m just not accustomed to it.” 

George swallows. “I see.” 

The fire crackles and the wind outside howls. Patches jumps onto the arm of the chair and Dream runs his hand through her fur. 

“I’m going to bed. Are you alright?” 

He nods, and George stands up. He grabs the scissors and the tools, as well as the tangled knots of thread he’d dropped onto the cloth. Dream watches him go, and it’s like taking his hands off a steaming mug. Torn between relief and wanting to pull him back. 

A handful of days later Dream has to go back into town. They’re out of flour and he needs more candles, now that the nights are lasting longer. George has already left the house by the time Dream comes to this unfortunate conclusion. The last couple of weeks he’d only been in the town a couple times, content for once to lie back and keep his nose out of things. 

He shuts a cabinet with a sigh as the realization sets in. Dream drags a hand down his face, and Patches looks up at him with her unblinking yellow eyes until he relents and scratches her behind the ears. 

Dream pulls up his boots, grateful that he doesn't need George’s help for it now. He grabs his coat as he heads out the door, locking the door firmly behind him and settling his hat over his hair. 

It’s midmorning when he steps out, frost clinging to the yellowed grass. The last few leaves had fallen off the trees and covered the ground, and those too had been frozen over. They crunch like branches beneath his feet as he makes his way down the forest path, for some odd reason he wished that George was there. He would complain about the cloudy sky and the cold, and then he’d tell Dream to stop prodding at his wound. 

The two of them had been carefully avoiding talking about the stitches incident. Looking back, Dream didn’t mean to react like that. It hadn’t been fair to George, because as much as it hurt, it was a minor injury. He hadn’t even bled that much, and the rest of the wound had healed over. He supposes he just wasn’t used to having someone so close to him, and the sudden pain had startled him like a frightened horse. 

He crests the top of the hill and the town spreads out beneath him, a collection of huddled houses and buildings perched on a field of grass halfway between the forest and the sea. The docks were crowded with British vessels, and the streets teemed with redcoats and civilians. The town was innocuous and quiet, the only reason the British held it so heavily was because of its location, halfway between rebel-held Connecticut and New York City. 

The breeze stinks of sea salt and brine, and with a sigh Dream stuffs his hands into his pockets and continues down. Each step is still uncomfortable, but it doesn't send a spike of agony lacing up from his side anymore. 

He is passing the first few houses, kicking at rocks along the dirt path when he sees another figure heading his way. Dream stops, hiding his grimace as Schlatt approaches. 

It’s a bit reminiscent of the day George came, only now everything is entirely different. He forces a tense smile as Shlatt approaches, dressed in all black with a brimmed hat and buckled shoes. He looks ridiculous, and he’d grown his sideburns long. 

“Dream!” He greets. “I was just on my way to see you, isn’t that funny?” 

“Why did you want to see me?” He frowns, the wind blows colder without the protection of the trees. He wonders if it’s going to snow soon. 

“Always so straight to the point, eh? Let’s just go for a walk, like friends. We’re friends right?” 

“Of course.”  _ Friends is a strong word.  _

Schlatt discreetly guides him down a less obvious path, passing back into the woods heading north. Dream looks around, just in case he ends up dead so someone can see that Schlatt was the last person to see him. He sighs. There was no one in sight. 

“I haven’t seen you since the gathering.” Schlatt says. “Wilbur told me you and the Lieutenant left for New York the next morning, and that was weeks ago.” 

“I had quite a few matters to take care of with the farm, and I have not been able to return to the town.” 

“Hey, I get it.” Schlatt says amicably, as if Dream had been accusing him of something. “You’re a busy guy with that little farm of yours. But I was thinking, it’s the off-season right?” 

Dream narrows his eyes but nods. “Right.” 

“Well, what do you say about helping me run things.” 

Dream sputters, nearly tripping over his own feet. “What?” 

Schlatt laughs, “No need to act so startled! It’s a business proposition. I’ll pay you and everything.” 

Dream recovers from his initial shock. “I’m not really in need of any money right now, but I appreciate the offer.” 

Schlatt throws his arm over Dream, and he flinches back just like he did with George. Only Schlatt didn’t burn him the way George did, Schlatt hollowed him out like a gutted animal. Despite the obvious flinch, Schlatt doesn't notice. His grip on Dream only tightens. 

“See Dream, the people of this town don’t really trust me as magistrate anymore.” He begins. “They say I’m power-hungry, that I cozied up to the British too much, too fast. Which let’s be real, is true, but I want what’s best for the town. And what’s best for this town is the British. Don’t you agree?” 

Guiltily, his thoughts flashback to George, to a crackling fireplace and his warm hands on Dream. “Yeah.” 

“Good, good. Then you see, there’s still the little rebel problem on our hands.” He says the word like it isn’t even worth his time, like the patriot cause is shit on his boot. “And of course the black market problem, too. I want you to see what you can do to root these people out and bring them to me, deal?” 

Dream’s heart pounds. “I don’t understand, is the major asking this of you?” 

“Oh Dream, I’m doing this out of the pureness of my heart and my loyalty to this town and the king.” He reaches into his pocket and extracts a pouch and drops it into Dream’s hands. It’s heavy with coins that clink together like music. 

“All that,” Schlatt assures, so close that he can smell the whiskey on his collar. His smile is pointed and crooked, closer to a leer. “And you get to help out little old me, help this town become as grand as I know it could be.” 

Dream pushes the coins back towards him, despite wanting to give into the human urge and shove them into his own pocket. “I’m sorry, I’m still incredibly busy having to provide for two people and take care of the farm-” 

“ _ Provide _ ?” Schlatt asks, his smile growing. “You mean the Lieutenant?”

He swallows, but his voice is firm and steady. “It’s my duty to provide good quarters for the crown.” 

“Oh, shut up about the crown. I’ve seen the way the Lieutenant smiles now, he didn’t smile like that back in White Hall.” He pushes the coins back at Dream. “You see, doing this would help George.” 

He wants to scream. How dare he bring George into this? How dare he ask this of him, of all things? 

“I’ll think about it, Schlatt.” He says, and steps out from his hold while giving back the dirty money. He breathes a little easier when he isn’t inhaling the scent of southern tobacco and whiskey. 

The magistrate laughs as he goes, a laugh that buries itself under Dream’s skin, sticks to his bones, turning his blood cold. It follows him through the market, all the way home. The words weigh heavy as bricks. 

When George asks why he’s so quiet that night, Dream shrugs it off. Tells him they’ll talk about it later. In truth, he doesn't want to even think about it. 

One night George comes home visibly upset. Dream has seen him upset enough times that he didn’t think it would bother him, but when George walks through the door, somewhere between pissed and exhausted, Dream isn’t sure what to do. 

He throws open the door, angrily kicking off his boots and coat while mumbling under his breath. Dream figures it’s just him being pissy as usual, but when Patches rubs against his leg and he doesn't bend down to pet her, he knows something is wrong. 

“George?” He calls, poking at the cod he’d gotten from the fisherman. It sizzles on the stovetop. “Are you alright?” 

“Lovely, Dream. Thank you!” 

Dream almost laughs at the forced sarcasm. “Are you certain?” 

“Yes.” He huffs, slumping down on the chair near the fire like it’s the end of it. 

“Do you,” Dream glances down at the fish, then flicks the stove off. “Want to go for a walk?” 

George cranes his neck to look at him, his eyebrows raised skeptically. “A walk?” 

“Yeah.” Dream says, wiping off his hands before crossing the room to stand in front of George. He offers his hand, and gives him his best smile, a peace offering for their last interaction. George looks between him and his hand, his eyes narrowed. Dream pushes his hand a little closer. “Walk with me?” 

He doesn't think George will actually say yes, that he’ll end up standing here with his outstretched hand like a fool. The fire crackles and it makes George’s face glow, catches the light in his blue eye and steals the breath from Dream’s lungs as his gaze meets his own. 

He thinks he’d do it all over again, everything, to keep those eyes on him. 

George takes his hand and none of it matters. 

His heart pounds and George is looking up at him in a way that tells him he knows, knows everything. There’s a concrete wall of secrets between them, but Dream can feel his hand on the other side. Small and warm in his own. 

He guides him to his feet and George let's go to pull on his boots once again. Dream takes a deep breath, flexing his hand. 

“It’s cold out.” George says. 

“You have a coat.” 

“I don’t want to wear,” He tilts his head towards his red coat, a bright spot of color against Dream’s earth tones. “That coat.” 

Dream tries not to smile. “Okay. Grab any of mine.”

He grabs a brown one at random, and stalks out of the house before Dream can say anything else. He grabs his green coat, gives Patches a scratch on the neck before he goes, and locks the door behind them. The cold air, wet from the sea, hits him like a slap in the face and he drops the key into his pocket. 

Dream doesn't miss the way George ducks into the coat against the wind, and he smiles before George turns to glare. “Why did you convince me this was a good idea? I’ve had a shit enough day as it is.” 

“It’s hard to complain about your bad day when you’re surrounded by nature.” Dream counters with a grin as they walk across the cabbage field towards the woods. 

“On the contrary, it is much easier to complain about your shit day when it’s cold and you can’t see five feet in front of you, and the most annoying man in the colonies is at your side.” 

Dream snickers. “I think you mean the most handsome man in the colonies.” 

George rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. Once again, Dream is astonished by how different he looks without his uniform. He thinks about what life would be like if they were born at a different time, in a different place. 

“Says the guy with the big scar across his face.” 

“Hey! I’m insecure about that.” 

“Good. It makes you look like a criminal.” 

Dream carefully steps over a log that George doesn't see. He catches George before he can fall, his chest swelling like the sea at his touch. 

“I am a criminal.” He says as he helps George stand. 

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.” He quips. “But seriously, how on earth can you see anything?”

George is right, the night is darker than spilt ink. The moon is gone, the stars covered by clouds. Whatever light does exist is blocked by the woods. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, but it seemed to distract George enough from whatever bad day he had that it was well worth the stumbling. 

“I don’t know. I’ve had a lot of experience hiding in the woods.” 

He can feel George’s eyes on him, but he doesn't press the issue. He steps over another fallen tree. “This darkness reminds me of being at sea.” 

“You’re not in the Navy though.” Dream glances up from the ground to look at George’s vague shape in the darkness. 

“No.” He agrees. “But I did make the six week journey across the Atlantic.” 

Dream grimaces. “How was that?” 

George snorts. “As awful as everyone tells you. But the nights without stars or the moon were the worst.” His voice softens. “It got so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. You couldn’t tell the sea from the sky, and it was like the ship was just bobbing along in this void. You couldn’t see the waves, didn’t know when to brace yourself. You didn’t have any kind of control.” 

Dream sucks in a breath. “Sounds terrifying.” 

“Yeah. I never want to do it again.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “You want to stay in the colonies forever then?” 

“Well,” George pauses. “When you put it like that I’m not so sure.” 

Dream laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “Come on, let's turn back before we get lost.” 

“I thought you were the woods expert.” George replies, but he turns around nonetheless. Another cold wind makes them shiver and walk faster. 

“If you don’t wanna be a sailor, George, then I don’t wanna be a woodsman.” 

George smiles, although Dream can’t see it. “I’ll hold you to it, Dream.” 

Dream sucks in a breath. “George.” 

They don’t say anything the rest of the way, but if their hands brush a few times, neither mentions it. 

It’s in broad daylight when everything goes to shit. In some ways he wants to thank Sapnap for getting himself into trouble in the middle of the day, because Dream would be in a much worse mood if he came to him in the middle of the night with his lopsided grin and easy laughter while a pack of redcoats are on his heels. 

Instead, Dream is fixing up the shed when he comes. It’s taking longer than he would have liked, on account of having to stop often to give his wound a break. By then, it had been almost a month since he’d been stabbed and he was beginning to doubt that he would ever feel the way he did before he got stabbed. 

He lines up a nail with a plank of wood, squinting to make sure it’s even and bracing himself for the discomfort the hammer swing will give his side-

“Dream!” 

He misses the nail and hits his hand instead. 

“Shit.” He hisses, clutching his hand while looking wildly around for whoever had said his name. They sounded desperate. Was it George? His heart pounds. Was he in trouble?

“Jesus Dream, are you blind?” 

He turns and Sapnap comes hobbling out of the woods, heavily favoring his left leg. His clothes were ripped and soiled with mud, and an angry bruise was spreading over his eye and cheek. Dream is so shocked to see him here of all places, blundering out of the woods like a drunkard who’d forgotten which way was home. 

Forgetting the throbbing in his hand, Dream takes a furtive step towards his friend. “Sapnap?” 

“Yeah, it’s me. Can I stay here for a bit?” He has the gall to appear sheepish. 

Dream looks around, but they’re alone. George won’t be back for hours, and the sun was high in the sky, hidden by a smattering of clouds. The woods will keep their secrets. 

“What happened?” He asks, glancing around again as he leads Sapnap across the field. 

Sapnap hisses as his foot catches on something, but he steadies himself. “Is the lobsterback around?”

“What George? No.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh so he’s George now?” 

“Just answer the question.” He says, pushing open the door to the house. Sapnap visibly relaxes once they’re in the relative safety of the house. It’s warm from the woodstove Dream kept on, cluttered with books and herbs hanging from the rafters. 

Sapnap stops to pet Patches, but Dream pushes him forward. “George could come back at any time, idiot. Keep walking.” 

“Where am I going?” 

“The cellar.” 

“The cellar?” Sapnap moans, throwing up his hands. “You can’t keep me in there! Like a proper criminal!” 

“You are a proper criminal, and there’s a redcoat who lives in this house so for now,” he prods him again and lights a candle as Sapnap stops beside the cellar door. “You’re hiding in the basement.” 

“Dream!” He whines. 

“If you want to go find someone else who will hide you, and who doesn't have a British lieutenant living in their house, go ahead.” 

“God I really hate the Quartering Act.” 

Dream opens the door leading down to the darkened cellar. “Yeah? Take it up with the king.” 

Sapnap follows him down into the darkness, the candle only a small pocket of light. The cellar is freezing and it smells of dust and preserves. All of his winter food was stored here- pickled cabbage, dried herbs, salted meat, sacks of beans and rice. Sapnap looks around, not bothering to hide his distaste. 

Dream lights some of the lanterns he kept down here, making the room look slightly more welcoming than before. Sapnap stands beside him, taking it all in. 

“Where am I supposed to shit?” 

Dream bites back a laugh. “I’ll get you a bucket.” 

“A  _ bucket _ ? Jesus Christ I’ll go back to the woods. Where will I sleep?” 

“I’ve got a straw mattress upstairs and some quilts that I’ll bring down.” He explains, setting the candle down on an empty barrel. “Beggars can’t be choosers. Why are you even here?” 

Sapnap sighs and plops down onto an upturned barrel. He rests his head in his hands and sighs again for good measure. “Techno sent me on a mission to talk to some quaker he wants to spy for him. They only know each other through a long chain of people, and why on God’s good earth he thought a quaker would join up is beyond me.” 

Dream laughs as Sapnap goes on, talking with his hands. “Anyways, so I go to this guy’s house, a farm right on the border between Pennsylvania and New York in the middle of absolute nowhere, and the guy gets all pissed at me for not respecting his pacifism. He’s a big guy too, I didn’t want to mess with him. Next thing I know there’s half a dozen redcoats on my tail.” 

“You ran all the way from Pennsylvania? With a bad ankle?” 

“Nah, the bad ankle is new.” He says flicking at his boot. He had stubble on his chin, a testament to what he’d been through. Although Dream supposes that Sapnap never really bothered with the formalities of shaving. Such things were below him. 

“Still, I was amazed I was able to find this place. I wasn’t so sure if I could.” 

“Well,” Dream says, “I’m glad you’re here.” 

“I am too, but I know Techno isn’t going to be pleased.” He leans back, the flickering light of the room highlighting the exhaustion on his face. “He was really counting on getting that quaker. I don’t know what he’s going to do now.” 

Dream sits beside him on another barrel. “He’s Techno. He’ll figure it out.” 

“Yeah.” Sapnap says around a huff of laughter, pulling his hat over his eyes. “He will.” 

They sit in silence for a long moment, Dream watching the candles flicker while Sapnap valiantly attempts to sleep. 

“When George is home,” he says carefully, picking his words before he says them. “I can’t really come down here, and you’ve gotta be quiet, okay? More quiet than you’ve ever been in your life.” 

Sapnap tips his black-brimmed hat back just enough for Dream to see his eyes. “That’s a tall order.” 

“I’m serious.” Dream leans forward, voice hard. “If he finds out you’re here the ring is busted.” 

“Jesus, Dream. We can just kill him if it comes to that.” 

His stomach drops to the floor at the thought, nausea rising in his throat. “We’re not gonna kill him.” 

“Obviously that’s a last resort-” 

“No.” Dream snaps, and he never snaps at Sapnap. He’s never this serious with him. Sapnap sits up at the tone of voice, frowning. “We don’t kill him. That’s the end of that.” 

“Dream, buddy, I was kidding! But God, he’s a redcoat! Nothing changes that!” 

Dream looks away, jaw tight as he stares at the floor. “It won’t come to it.” 

A few beats pass, Dream can only hear the pound of his heart and the breath in his lungs. He watches the dirt floor, covered in dust and spilt rice. He couldn’t stomach the thought of George being hurt, being in danger. The thought of  _ him  _ being the one to put him in danger is even worse. 

“Alright.” Sapnap says at last, like he understands everything and nothing at all. “Alright, we don’t kill him.” 

It takes five days before George finds out. Truthfully, Dream is shocked they made it that long, and he was hoping that Sapnap would have been gone by then. However, he seemed to have absolutely no interest in leaving, complaining that, “Yeah this cellar sucks but it’s better than the continental camp.” 

Dream wasn’t sure how far Techno’s leeway went. Try as he might, he couldn’t get Sapnap to go. It made his anxiety build and build, like water behind a dam. Everytime George walked by the cellar door his mouth went dry. Everytime he heard Sapnap make a noise while George was there his hands shook and he kept his head down. He wished Sapnap would leave, which was odd because he knew he should be hoping that George would leave, not his best friend. 

Really, George found out by accident. Dream should have been paying attention, should have stopped him when George said he was going to the cellar to get rice. Dream could blame it on the cold clouding his senses, or his exhaustion, or even his simple inability to say no to George. 

Whatever the reasons, it didn’t change the fact that George did go down into the cellar, and it didn’t change the fact that this caused perhaps the scariest five minutes of Dream’s life. 

As his footsteps descended the steps, Dream remembered, in a fit of panic as if a bucket of well water had been dumped on his head, why exactly George was not allowed in the cellar. He scrambles to his feet, the wooden chair scratching the floorboards as a shout rang out through the house, shattering the silence. It was quickly followed by another as Dream raced for the cellar, panic clawing at his throat. 

He was so, so vacuous. A bonafide idiot. He shouldn’t have let Sapnap stay, he should’ve found somewhere else for him to go, shouldn’t have let George go downstairs. 

None of it matters when his mind shatters into a thousand pieces at the crack of a gun. 

Dream hurtles around the corner, stopping at the opened door. Dream’s eyes flash to George standing at the end of the stairs, shaken but alive. Dream grabs onto the doorframe to avoid collapsing in relief. 

George’s eyes catch onto his, and he hurries down the steps, quickly placing himself between George and Sapnap, who had somehow gotten his hands on a pistol. 

“What did we talk about?” Dream snaps at him, his voice hot with rage. “You  _ promised _ .” 

“He’s gonna get both of us killed, Dream!” Sapnap yells back. 

“No, he’s not!” 

“How?” Sapnap throws his hands up in exasperation, Dream’s eyes following the pistol. “How in Christ’s name do you know that?” 

He can feel George behind him, and there’s a hole in the wall where the bullet landed. The blood rushes to his head like a geyser, his heart beating like it’s trying to break out of his chest.

“Because he already knows!” 

Silence follows the admission. He had heard that sometimes silence was louder than a thousand voices, and he’d never taken the time to understand what that meant. He understands it now. Understands it in the way George straightens up behind him, understands it in the way Sapnap’s mouth falls open, his eyes wide. 

“He knows?” Sapnap repeats, voice quiet. 

Dream nods slowly, opening his mouth to speak when he’s cut off. 

“No, Dream. I don’t know.” 

He turns, and George is staring at him, his gaze hardened like stone. Dream had seen him mad, had felt George’s anger directed at him before. But he’d never seen him like  _ this _ , looking like he was about to reach for a gun and shoot both of them in the head. 

“George-” 

“Don’t do that.” He seethes. “Not when your squatter here almost blew my head off.” 

Dream sighs, torn in half between the two secrets he’d been keeping, the two sides he’d been playing. George won’t meet his eye and the tear furtherns. 

“Dream move.” Sapnap says, and he doesn't have to look behind him to see the pistol. 

“George. Just give me five minutes. Five minutes and I’ll explain everything.” He pleads, moving so there’s no way Sapnap can get a shot in. He whispers, “Please.” 

George searches his face, and he sees the desperation etched into it because he sighs. “Five minutes.” 

Dream pushes him up the stairs, careful to always stay between him and Sapnap. At the top he forces the door closed behind them, locking it for good measure. 

“You know what happened in New York.” He says carefully, leaning against the door. “Let’s not pretend that you don’t.” 

“What happened in New York?” 

Dream frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean I want to hear you say it, not me.” 

He opens his mouth, then closes it. For a long time, much longer than he’d like to admit, he’d known that he would eventually have to choose between cause and country or George. He didn’t think the decision would be difficult, he’d given everything for his values of independence and democracy, and he had never been given a reason to believe that he would choose something else above that. 

George lifts his eyebrows expectantly, and Dream was pretty sure that if he didn’t start talking now that George would walk out of here and tell Wilbur everything. So he takes a deep breath, tries to ignore the faint freckles over George’s nose and the way he looks at Dream. He thinks of blue uniforms and redcoats and a shattered statue and stitches. 

“I broke into the Dalton’s mansion in order to retrieve a sculpture of King George III. I was under orders from General Techno of the Continental Army to receive a letter stolen from the king’s court in London. But you already know that.” 

“I do.” George agrees. “I read the letter.” 

“And you didn’t say anything?” 

“Maybe I should have. Maybe I was thinking about what you said to me on the road. About thinking for myself.” 

Dream’s breath catches in his throat. “Yeah?” 

“I wasn’t the one who stitched your wound.” He admits. “The tavern keeper, Eret. He did it.” 

Dream blinks. “I don’t understand.” 

George runs a hand through his hair. “Four months ago, Eret got caught with a copy of  _ Common Sense  _ and I helped him get out, I gave him the name of someone who would help him out. I covered his footprints, I lied to the higher ups. They never found out, but they had reason to suspect me. It was part of the reason I was sent here. They believed me to be a liability.” 

“I still don’t understand.” He says slowly, mind spinning with the overdrive of new information. “Why did you help him?” 

George sighs. “Maybe I loved Eret more than I loved the king. Maybe I couldn’t see him hanged. Either way, I did it.”

“Those arguments.” He looks towards the door, no doubt Sapnap had his ear pressed against the other side, listening in. “At the beginning. You should have turned me in for that.” 

“Probably.” George agrees. “I probably should have turned you in for the number of times you snuck out at night.” 

Dream pales. “I didn’t think you knew about that.” 

“The question is, what are you going to do. Now that I know. You can’t have a redcoat knowing you’re a spy. What does that say about you, Dream?” He leans in closer, until they’re almost touching. He feels every inch of space between them like a canyon. George’s breath ghosts along his chin, spilling chills like sparks down his spine. “Is it me or country?” 

“George.” 

“Dream.” 

_ Me or country?  _ He wasn’t sure he could ever answer, but the way George was looking at him now, eyes knowing. Smiling just slightly, and a little out of breath. The sound of a gunshot echoes in his head, and his stomach flutters. He couldn’t run anymore. It had never been a question. 

“You’re my cause, George.” 

George inhales sharply and it catches in his throat. Before him was something more than democracy and self-government, something Dream could guarantee. The admission leaves him in a breath, and he looks at George looking at him and nothing else matters. 

“Your cause?” 

He nods. “Always.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> -Laudanum was an opioid that has been in use since the 16th century as a painkiller prepared in an alcoholic solution. It was somewhat expensive and one of the earliest forms of painkillers, but it was also a common poison. Morphine wouldn’t be around until the early 19th century  
> -Lobsterback was considered a ‘derogatory’ term back then, a ruder version of redcoat if you will  
> -The journey across the Atlantic was brutal, and took an average of six weeks. People who made the journey faced disease, sicknesses, and bad weather on a cramped ship.  
> -Back then men who didn’t shave were considered crude, so Sapnap choosing not to shave says a lot about his personality 
> 
> thank you guys so much for 300+ kudos that's actually insane!! and of course for all the kind comments they make my day


	6. Chapter VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw// minor character death, violence

The admission hangs in the air between them like a gas, choking both of them. George meets his eyes and wordless understanding passes between them. Dream grabs onto the counter to steady himself, his ears and heart ringing like they did after a cannon exploded. Always. 

He meant it. Dream had spent his whole life looking for a cause, something bigger than himself. He had found it in a revolution, and he had also found it in a redcoat with stubbornness issues and a pretty voice. Dream isn’t sure if he could truly choose between them, if he could forget who he was for what he stood against. 

George opens his mouth as if to say something, when a knock interrupts him. Their eyes snap to each other, then to the cellar door. 

“Sapnap?” Dream’s throat tightens. 

“That wasn’t me!” He yells, not bothering to hide that he'd been blatantly listening to them. Dream flushes, it wasn’t a conversation he particularly wanted Sapnap to hear. 

The knock comes again, harsher. The people on the other side say something Dream can’t decipher. Their voices are like gunfire against the door. He takes a deep breath. 

“I’ll get it.” Dream walks towards the front door, on the other end of the house. “It’s probably just Mr. Beecher-” 

The words die like ash in his throat when he pulls open the heavy wooden door to reveal two redcoats. They are both older men, their uniforms neatly pressed and powdered wigs pushed over their hair. Dream didn’t recognize either of them, and the one on the right was an officer, his coat decorated with gold and held together by a sash across his front with a gorget. 

Dream tips his head politely despite the way the blood rushes to his head in panic. George meant what he said, they didn’t know Sapnap was here. It was fine.

“We’re looking for a man.” The officer says simply. “He is a known rebel being tried with treason and arson, and is believed to have come through these woods in his escape to rebel territory.” 

Dream’s eye twitches. Arson? “I haven’t heard of any such thing.” 

The officer raises an eyebrow. “Really? No suspicious characters of any sort?” 

He shakes his head. “No sir.” 

The officer doesn't believe him. “We’re going to have a look around your house.” 

“I believe you need a warrant for that- hey!” The officer and the soldier push past him, barging into the house and dragging a deluge of mud behind them. Dream cringes, praying that Sapnap had half a mind to hide or make a run for it. 

The officer unrolls a scroll of paper. “You’ve forgotten that we don’t need a warrant to search your house.” Dream briefly catches a glimpse of something signed by General Francis Smith and his mouth snaps shut. 

The soldier starts poking at his bookcase as the officer flips through the stack of papers on the table, most of them were George’s and he sees the realization flash through the officer’s eyes just before the man himself enters. 

“Is there a problem, sir?” George asks, leaning against the wall. The officer probably outranked George by a handful of positions, but the shock written across his face is unmistakable. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Dream to be quartering. 

“State your name and rank.” He replies curtly, straightening up and setting aside the papers that George had neatly organized. 

He snaps into a half-hearted salute. “Lieutenant George Evans of the 31st Regiment of Foot, sir.” 

The officer narrows his eyes. “You were at Bunker Hill.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And Lexington and Concord.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The officer blinks as Dream narrows his eyes on the both of them. George had never talked about the battles he’d been in, aside from the offhand comment. He had never bothered to prod the subject, but now it felt strangely important. Had George done something significant? Or his regiment? The officer recognized him clearly.

“My mistake, Lieutenant.” The officer says. “We were looking for an escaped rebel. I see he is not here.” 

George shakes his head. “There are no rebels here. But I wish you well on your quest to find him.” 

The officer restores his hat to his head. “Would you have happened to hear anything? I hear there is a lot of,” he waves his hand vaguely in the air, “rumor. Surrounding the town.” He adds on the last sentence like an afterthought. 

George shakes his head. “Nothing concrete, sir. You should speak with the magistrate about those matters.” 

“The magistrate?” The officer asks, and Dream can’t help shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. He recalls his last conversion with Schlatt without fondness. He had not seen him since then, never straying far from the farm. 

“Indeed, sir. The magistrate knows everything about the town, he would best know who was suspected of rebel activity.” 

Dream stokes the fire as the two speak, ears peeled for the sound of Sapnap in the basement. The lower-ranking soldier continues to poke through his bookshelf, as if it'll turn up anything that could get Dream arrested. 

“Interesting. I’ll speak with him next.” The officer nods, then calls over the soldier and opens the door. “We appreciate the help you have provided.” 

“Of course, sir.” George says, tipping his head. “God be with you.” 

Cold night air bleeds into the house through the open door. “God be with you.” The officer agrees, before departing into the void of night as if he had never been there at all.

Dream rushes to the window, peeling back the curtains as the little bob of lantern light fades down the path and is swallowed by the forest. 

He breathes out a long sigh and presses his cheek against the cold window. His breath fogs the glass. Dream’s heart hasn’t stopped pounding since George went down those stairs, and now it felt bruised and tired in his chest. 

“Are they gone?” George asks, voice strained in an echo of the commanding tone he’d used prior. 

“Yeah.” He sighs, his eyelids just barely fluttering shut in exhaustion. “They’re gone.” 

There’s a dull thud and the sound of a chair falling over. Dream’s eyes snap open, and he finds George sitting on the wooden floor beside the chair he had evidently missed, clutching his chest. Dream is at his side in the blink of an eye. 

“George?” He reaches out towards him. “Are you alright? What’s happened?” 

“I can’t believe I’ve done that.” He mumbles, eyes on the floor. “I’m gonna be strung up like Nathan Hale.” 

Dream thought that was a pretty far comparison, but he kept that idea to himself. “It’s alright. You’re gonna be fine.” 

“Did you mean it?” George’s eyes land on Dream, and no matter how many times it happens, his gaze always steals the breath from his lungs. “What you said?” 

“Of course, George.” He says quickly. “I’ve never meant anything more.” 

George shakes his head, gaze wide-eyed and faraway. “Everything I’ve done. I took a bullet for the king, but I-I can’t go back now, can I?” 

“No.” Dream agrees, rubbing his back. His touch is featherlight against George’s red coat. “When did you take a bullet?” 

“Lexington.” 

Dream inhales sharply, the thought of George getting hurt makes his head swim. He opens his mouth to say something, although he isn’t sure what, when Sapnap beats him to it. 

“One of you is going to have to explain this transgression to me because what in God’s name is happening?” 

Dream and George swivel around to find him standing above them, his hands on his hips and his face wild. They’d been too absorbed in one another to notice his arrival. Sapnap’s gaze is fixated on the spot where Dream’s hand touches George’s shoulders. He doesn't move his hand. 

“I’ll explain.” Dream says carefully. “But George is with us, and he just proved it.” 

Sapnap scowls. “The one thing the lobsterbacks hate more than patriots is turncoats. They are not going to be favorable when they catch you.” 

“ _ If _ .” Dream hisses, his hand digging into George’s back. “If they catch him.” 

Sapnap puts his hands up in apology. “ _ If  _ they catch you. Look George, if you’re serious about this tell Dream what you know. Tell him everything.” 

George visibly swallows, eyes darting nervously across the room. 

“He doesn't have to tell me now. It’s been a long night.” Dream interjects, carefully standing up. George mirrors his actions, and they probably stand a little closer than they need to. 

Sapnap’s gaze jumps between them, but he decides to let it go. “I’m leaving in the morning.” 

Dream tries not to look too relieved. “Wouldn’t it be safer to travel at night?” 

“I’ll be fine. I’ve had a long enough night as it is.” He gives them a halfhearted salute, and Dream a tired but knowing look before disappearing into the cellar. 

The first snow arrives a handful of nights later, when the clouds roll in from the sea and block out the moon and stars. Dream shoves blankets under the door and windows to keep in the heat, and he stokes the fire and lights the wood stove. It keeps the downstairs of the house at a liveable temperature, but the upstairs becomes an icebox that both Dream and George refuse to enter. It finds the two of them slumped at the kitchen table beside the woodstove, sorting through George’s massive pile of documents and trying to glean some use from them so Dream can row over to Connecticut for the first time in a month. 

“Is this what you do all day?” Dream asks, scrunching up his nose as he reads a paper about the town’s tax collection. 

“Hm? Oh this?” George grabs the paper from Dream and shakes his head. “That stuff goes to Schlatt. This is what I do all day.” 

George tosses him a thin journal, each page carefully marked with times and names. A training log of all the men in his squadron. Dream idly flips through it. It could be useful, but likely not enough for Techno to take more than a glance at. 

“This is only slightly more thrilling than tax collection.” 

George snorts, but it turns into a yawn pretty quick. “Yeah. Thrilling.” 

“Hey, we can call it a night.” Dream softens. “I know you haven’t been sleeping well.” 

George shakes his head. “No, this is important.” 

“I’ve already got a decent report.” Dream taps his own sheet of paper. “I think we’ve combed through all the important stuff, unless you want to start going through tax records.” 

George groans at the suggestion, dragging his hands down his face. Dream laughs. “Alright, we won’t do that.” 

“I don’t want to go to sleep.” George admits, despite his blood shot eyes. 

Dream hums, reading over an old drafted report. “Why is that?” 

“I don’t know. I like sitting with you.” 

His stomach flutters and he glances away from George. “You don’t mean that.” 

“I do.” He insists. “You’re the one good thing about this place.” 

Dream blinks, his cheeks flushed. George just laughs and laughs, like he said nothing at all. “I think I’m tired.” 

“I think so too.” Dream pushes his chair back and stands. He offers his hand to George, who takes it without thought, as if the motion comes naturally now. “C’mon.” 

“You know the first time I saw you, I thought I was the luckiest man in the British army.” George says, and Dream reminds himself to never ever let George get this tired again. 

“Mhm. Was it my pretty face?” 

“Something like that.” He agrees as they make their way up the narrow set of stairs. 

He watches George climb the stairs, shaking his head fondly. “The first time I saw you I wanted to punch you.” 

George laughs. “That isn’t true.” 

Dream wheezes. “It is! I was pissed when Wilbur told me I had to quarter someone. To me you were everything wrong with the British Army, the pinnacle of what this war had come to, right into my front door.” 

“It turned out alright in the end.” George slurs as they reach the top of the stairs. He opens the door to his room, which is a complete mess inside. 

“It sure did.” He agrees. Dream switches topics, mostly because he doesn't want George to go. “Sorry again about Sapnap trying to blow your head off.” 

“Well, he didn’t actually do it. So it’s fine.” 

Dream purses his lips, he certainly didn’t sound all that sure about that. He decides not to press it, because Sapnap was gone, back in the safe grasp of the continental army, and he and George likely wouldn’t meet ever again. 

“Are you going to retire to your room?” George asks, looking between Dream and the hallway. 

Dream shakes his head. “I’m going to go through those papers a little longer. I don’t want to miss anything.” 

George frowns. “You should sleep, Dream.” 

“I can sleep-in tomorrow,” he pokes George’s arm. “You cannot.” 

He rubs the place where Dream poked him. “I’m tired of being tired.” 

Dream smiles. “I know.” 

George just shakes his head. “See you in the morning?” 

Dream nods and restrains the urge to reach out and take George’s hand, lest he do something stupid like kiss it. Instead he says, “Goodnight, George.” 

He feels like he’s saying more than that, but all George does is offer a tired smile in return before closing the door, leaving Dream to stare at the wood and wish it was still George. 

Two nights later Dream returns from Connecticut, feeling like exhaustion incarnate. The nights are no longer cold, but frigid instead. They bring with them the icy winds of the North Atlantic, and his feet crunch over snow that had frozen into ice. He nearly slips on the raised earth of the cabbage fields, the turned earth frozen solid. 

The most useful thing he had learned from digging through George’s documents was that a fresh shipment of British soldiers was to arrive in the town in about a month- given that they ran into no troubles at sea. He had also learned a little about the munitions stockpile in the old schoolhouse. Barrels and barrels of gunpowder filled the room that had once been congested with desks and inkwells. 

Dream enters his house, falling back against the door with a sigh. His shoulders ache from all the rowing, and his feet were rubbed raw against the inside of his boots. The only light in the house comes from the dying fireplace and the flicker of a candle flame. He sighs again. He was hoping George would still be awake, but it was fast approaching four a.m. and Dream can’t really blame him for hitting the sack instead. 

He rubs his eyes and pokes through his cabinets for anything he can eat. He settles on rye bread, despite the way it’s just about the last thing he wants to eat. He goes outside to get the milk container which he had buried in the snow to keep cold. His breath clouds in the air and he rubs his hands together for warmth before leaning down to pry the metal container from the snow, promptly dropping it at the sound of a scream. 

Dream’s blood runs cold as he straightens. His face is lit from the lantern he had taken with him, highlighting the strong line of his nose and the scar that reaches across his face, cutting through his freckles. His cheeks are pink with cold, the wind pushing his hair in front of his face as his heart fractures in his chest. 

“ _ George _ ?” He throws open the door, dragging snow into the house. The rye bread sits forgotten on the counter. He grabs the knife from his sleeve as he runs up the stairs, breath catching in his throat as he calls for George again. 

After hearing no response, he barges his way into George’s room. Dream clutches the lantern in one hand, the knife in the other. But the room is empty apart from George, curled under the covers. His sleeping face scrunched in worry as Dream hurries to his side. He sets aside the lantern and carefully holds the knife away from George as he pushes on his shoulders, desperate to see his eyes open, to know he’s okay. 

“George, wake up.” He pleads, shaking him harder. George thrashes the other way, away from Dream’s hands and mumbles something under his breath. 

Dream shakes him again, desperate and frantic as his hands start to shake and the old wound in his side flares with pain. “C’mon George.” 

His eyes snap open and a flash of pain spreads over Dream’s face. He sits back on his heels, gripping his face as a wide-eyed George stares down at him, chest heaving. It takes a moment for Dream to realize that George had slapped him. 

George seems to realize it at the same time because he scoots away from Dream, as if putting distance between them can remedy the mistake. 

“Dream?” 

Deciding to ignore the fact that George hit him, he asks, “Are you alright?” 

“Alright?” He repeats dumbly. 

He lowers his hand from his cheek. “Yeah. I heard you scream.” 

“Oh.” George repeats, shoulders relaxing slightly. “I haven’t done that in a while, I’m- I didn’t mean to hit you.” 

“What happened?” He asks. “In the dream?” 

George rubs his face. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Dream tries to hide the hurt that flashes across his face. He nods, recalling his own restless nights as his mind brought up images he’d rather never think about again. 

“Okay.” He says, leaning against the side of the bed. He tilts his head back to stare at the cross beams holding up the ceiling. “I have milk and bread downstairs if you want some.” 

George rubs his face again, as if he can wipe away the nightmare. “Yeah. Yeah just give me a moment.” He inhales shakily a few times and Dream doesn't reach out to him, even though he thinks he should. 

“Did you go to Connecitut?”

“Mhm.” Dream says, letting his eyes fall shut and his heart slow. George was okay, and that was all that mattered. 

“Did it go alright?” 

“It went fine. My shoulders hurt.” 

George exhales, and slides his fingers into Dream’s hair. His eyes flutter open, and he glances at George, who isn’t looking at him. He shivers when his nail scratches his scalp. “George?” 

“Is this alright?” 

He swallows. His reply is uneven and shaky, like he’s underwater. “Yeah.” 

A moment passes where neither says anything, and his eyes fall shut again. He’d never been good at being touched, but he leans into George, the way his hands ease the worries from his mind and the fluttering in his stomach settles. 

“I’m sorry for scaring you.” George mumbles, playing with an absent curl. 

“I’m just thankful you’re alright.” 

George gently pulls apart a knot in his hair and Dream sighs. The snow outside falls steadily, settling over the roof and the land. The room was cold, but Dream felt warm. 

George whispers, “I was shot in the shoulder. At Lexington.” 

“Is that what your dream was about?” 

George looks away with that thousand-yard stare accustomed to all veterans. “Something like that.” 

“I’m thankful I wasn’t there.” 

“Me too.” 

The flame in the lantern flickers. Dream asks, voice barely above a whisper because anything louder feels like it would shatter the moment into a million pieces. “Would you do it again? Would you join up again?” 

George’s fingers pause before continuing to run through his hair. “I don’t know. I’d never go back to Britain but the New World is so full of death.” He pulls a leaf from his hair, smiling before tossing it aside. “Maybe I’d do it again. If it meant I got to meet you. I think I would go through a million Lexingtons to meet you.” 

His breath catches in his throat and it's like the shot heard around the world, the way the sound fills the room. It’s a little too much all at once, the way his fingers slide through his hair. He thinks about the knife in his gut, and thinks he'd do it again and again, just to have this moment. 

The snow sticks to his boots like glue as he trudges through the town, wind whistling through the tree branches and rattling off the last stubborn leaves still clinging on. The early-morning sun slants through a gap in the clouds, and Dream pauses for a moment to soak up the little warmth it offers, the snow sparkling in the light. 

He adjusts the sack on his shoulders, mostly filled with spare cabbage seed that he wouldn’t need for next year’s harvest. He keeps his eyes peeled for Schlatt as he exchanges the seeds for a few shillings at the general store. 

“Are you helping with the hay today?” The old man behind the counter asks around his cigar as he counts out the change. 

“The hay?” Dream repeats dumbly, watching the coins settle on the counter. 

“Yep.” The man says, popping the p. “The soldiers need food for winter, went and got themselves a colossal shipment of hay from Pennsylvania to feed themselves and their horses. Most of it is shipping out next week.” 

Dream leans forward. “When is it coming in?” 

“I reckon right about now.” The old man says, sliding the coins across the counter to Dream. “You should go see if they need help.” 

“Thank you.” Dream says, pocketing the coins. “I think I just might.” 

That afternoon Nikki hangs a black petticoat on the clothesline facing the sound, at the same time that soldiers fill the fields of White Hall, forming massive piles of hay above the snow. The next night Dream rows to Connecticut and meets Sapnap, both of them with a wild look in their eyes as Dream tells him about the fields piled with hay. 

“If we were to burn it,” Sapnap says carefully, scarred hands fidgeting as if striking a match, “would they starve?” 

“I don’t think they’d  _ starve _ .” Dream tosses a stone, watches it skip over the water a few times before sinking with a splash. “But their horses might, and they would lose a lot of money, and spend even more cash scrambling to find more food. George mentioned the officers would be having a meeting in five days at the tavern. We could burn it while they’re occupied.” 

“It’s good, it's good.” Sapnap muses, holding his chin. “Maybe good enough for Techno.” 

Dream frowns. “You think he’ll do something about it?” 

“I think,” Sapnap says slowly, meeting Dream’s eyes, “the big man himself might make an appearance.” 

Dream hadn’t seen Techno since late spring, when he had asked him to spy. The major couldn’t be bothered to leave the continental camp most of the time, too preoccupied with his duties as head of intelligence. Regardless, the man had a reputation that preceded him. He had been a ruthless fur trader and frontiersman in the Canadian wilderness before the war, and he was rumored to have been a privateer before that. He knew everything about everyone, yet carried himself like he couldn’t care less. There weren’t many people that Dream feared, but Techno was one of them. 

“You’re talking about a raid.” Dream says carefully. “Here. At White Hall.” 

Sapnap grins, and his eyes cloud over with that faraway look Dream has come to realize means nothing good. “When we’re done with it their won’t be anything left.”

Dream’s heart pounds. “On one condition.” 

“What’s that?” Sapnap asks, although he already knows what Dream is going to say. 

“Nothing happens to George.” 

“Dream-” 

“I mean it.” He cuts off. “He’s saved both of our lives. I don’t want a scratch on him.” 

Sapnap sighs, breaking a stick under his boot. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

He doesn't tell George about the raid. In the end, it costs him everything. 

The morning of the raid dawns bright and clear, not a cloud in the sky. The air smells of brine from the sea, and Dream’s nose wrinkles as he crouches in a ditch about a mile east of the town. He clutches a rifle in his hands, most definitely not his preferred weapon, but necessary.

Dream had been crouched in the same position all night and his legs had long since cramped up. He worried that if he moved them they would snap like broken icicles. 

He watches a songbird fly between the tree branches above him, and a squirrel scamper after it. He clutches the rifle a little tighter, anticipation coiling like a spring in his chest. 

Distantly, the splash of oars against water breaks his concentration. Heart in his throat, he crawls up the side of the ditch, wincing at the pain in his legs. He pokes his eyes above the ground, grinning when he sees a half-dozen rowboats filled with men in blue uniforms. For the first time in months, something akin to hope flickers like a dying ember in his chest. 

He waits until the boats beach before carefully standing. The men scramble to pull the boats ashore and collect their muskets and gunpowder from inside, but Dream’s gaze latches onto Sapnap, still stubbornly refusing to wear a uniform, and the man beside him. 

Techno barely gives him a second glance as Dream emerges like a wraith from the trees. Unlike Sapnap, the major wore his uniform like a mark of pride. His blue coat was spotless, not a mark of dirt on the white lapels or gold buttons. A saber was strapped to his side, a pistol on the other. His long hair was tied back and he wore his dragoon helmet over it, the plume fluttering in the wind. 

Sapnap beams at Dream’s appearance, throwing his arm across his shoulders without a moment’s hesitance. 

“I didn’t think you’d make it!” Sapnap laughs, eyes crinkling like they were going to the local dance, not war. 

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” Dream replies, rolling his eyes and pushing his friend off him. 

Techno flips a pocket watch closed, eyes dark. The snap echoes over the water. “We’re late.” 

“Doesn't matter.” Dream says. “The hay doesn’t ship out until tomorrow.” 

Techno glances at him, shoving the pocket watch into his coat. He doesn't show it, but having Techno’s full attention makes him nervous. Not in the pleasant way that George’s attention did, but in the skin-crawling, pins-and-needles type of way. He wanted to run. 

“You would think,” he says dryly, “that a spy as good as you would have thought to include that piece of information in the report.” 

Dream grits his teeth, but doesn't say anything. He looks to Sapnap, who was idly melting the snow off a tree branch with a lit match. Sapnap only shrugs, before returning to his task. Dream sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Alright gentlemen,” Techno shouts, and all the men straighten up, eyes turned to him. Dream envies his ability to effortlessly control a room, the way the men don’t even think twice about it. He wonders if it comes from military training, or if it’s just Techno. 

“I want two lines behind me. Keep low to the ground. We have surprise on our side, but it won’t last more than a few minutes.” He fingers the end of his saber, but he sounds bored as he hands out orders and directions. “No unnecessary bloodshed. We’re not the rangers.” 

A few of the men groan, but a sharp look from Techno quiets the complaints pretty quickly. Dutifully the men move into a line, Dream and Sapnap right behind Techno as he leads them through the snowy forest. Their footsteps crunch against the snow, leaving a trail behind them. 

That same feeling he felt while in the ditch returns, his stomach knotting itself. He fidgets with his rifle, adjusts the green bandana covering his face. 

“Hey,” Sapnap whispers as they approach the edge of town, the top of White Hall looming just above the trees. “Don’t look so nervous. We’ve got Techno.” 

Dream shakes his head. “Did you tell him about George?” 

“I can hear you.” Techno says in front of them. “Which means the lobsters can too.” 

They breach the edge of the forest, stopping just in front of the log wall that had recently been constructed to keep the house safe. It made the manor look like a proper military fort, not just a home. Their eyes flicker to the guard tower, empty. Just as George promised. 

“Dream,” Techno whispers, finally turning to face him. “This is the end of the line for you, go back to your farm.” 

Dream frowns. “No it’s not.” 

“Yes it is.” Techno sighs. “If anyone sees you with us, you’re no longer a spy but a soldier. I don’t need any more soldiers, I need spies. I cannot have you seen with us.” 

Anger, old and hot boils in his gut. “You’re kidding, right? You’re actually joking.” 

“I’m not. Go home.” 

Dream turns to Sapnap, his voice harsh and biting, “Say something!” 

“What am I supposed to say, huh? He’s right and you know it.” 

Dream wants to scream. The only reason they were here was because of him, they owed it to him. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t been here. 

“I’m staying.” He insists. Deep down, he knew he was only staying because of George. George had told him he had a meeting in the morning, with all the officers and the political leaders of the town. That’s why they were striking now. But Dream couldn’t shake the fear that George might still be here, in White Hall. If he got hurt and it was on Dream’s hands, he’s not sure what he would do. The guilt would eat him raw. 

“You are leaving.” Techno hisses. “And that is an order.” 

“I’m not a part of the continental army.” Dream snaps. “You can’t tell me shit.” 

“Dream,” Sapnap whispers, pulling on his shoulders so Dream faces him. “I’ll look out for George, okay? He isn’t here, but if he is I won’t let anything happen to him.” 

“You can’t promise that.” Dream insists, shaking his head. 

“Yes he can.” Techno says, playing with his glove. “Now go. You’ve wasted my time enough.”

Dream grits his teeth so hard he feels them crack, biting his tongue and swallowing the blood. He looks between Techno, Sapnap, and the wall. All he sees is George. 

Sapnap pushes him back gently. “You trust me, right?” 

He swallows. “Yes.” 

“Then go.” 

He looks between them one last time, heart in his throat, before quietly slinking into the forest. He disappears into the trees like he was never there at all. 

Dream uses the trees to get away, ignoring the anxiety closing up his throat. That he wants to cry and scream all at once. Wishing not for the first time that he was born in a different time, a different place, in a different body. 

He doesn't leave. Dream perches himself in a cottonwood tree a safe distance away. He pulls his hat low over his eyes, his bandana covering the rest of his face as his coat flaps in the wind. Dream grips his gun, and waits. 

It doesn't take long. A redcoat pushes open the massive gate, and he barely takes two steps before an axe is flying through the air and imbeds itself in his chest. 

Then many things happen at once. 

A shout goes up, impossible to tell from which side, and then the rebels are pushing out from the forest, swarming through the gate. Dream bites his cheek, from this height and position he can just barely see over the wall. The handful of redcoats inside startle, a few raising their hands in surrender, while others meet the end of a bayonet. He cringes at the bloodshed. Tries to ignore the nagging feeling in his gut. In only a handful of minutes, the ground is littered with dead soldiers- British and American. Dream picks at his nails. The rebels light torches, tossing them into the hay. A few smash the windows of White Hall and throw torches inside. Techno makes no move to stop them. 

Smoke clouds the air, and Dream couldn’t decipher the emotions swirling in his gut if his life depended on it. He grips the tree, the bark digging through his gloves. He feels like vomiting, but also cheering. 

He had imagined watching White Hall burn many times, imagined chasing the redcoats from his home once and for all. This wasn’t that moment, but it was a step in the right direction. One victory in the course of an entire war. 

The flames catch, pouring from the windows. Fire leaps from the bales of hay, reaching towards the sun as a wintry wind blows with the scent of smoke and sea. The rebels dash out, cheering vistrouously. Techno stands before the flames, his pink hair catching in the light, a God amongst men. 

Dream slinks back into the tree, heart hammering. The rebels flee, leaving a trail of fire and blood in their wake. The silence which arrives with their disappearance is louder than the sea crashing against cliffs. He stares at the broken bodies of the redcoats and his throat tightens. 

He has no idea how long he stands there, staring at the flames and the bodies until he can’t see the bodies anymore. At one point, two redcoats stagger out and collapse just outside the range of the fire, beyond the wall. Dream narrows his eyes, but can’t tell who they are. He grabs his gun, but does not think about firing. Not really. 

Eventually, the officers come running back from the town. Dream crouches lower in the tree, but he’s too far away to hear what they’re saying. A sick curl of satisfaction forms in his stomach as the officers and Schlatt wonder around, staring and cursing at the fire, calling for men who won’t answer. 

Dream’s heart pounds, his gaze jumping from one to the next in increasing panic. He can’t find George. George isn’t with them. Jesus Christ, George isn’t with them-

One of the officers cries out, finding the two soldiers that had barely escaped the flames. Dream’s foot slips on the branch, and he catches himself just before he can fall. It’s George. 

He is holding one of the collapsed soldiers to his chest just as Wilbur arrives, but George doesn't miss anything. He’s too smart for them. He doesn't miss the movement in the trees. 

When George meets Dream’s eyes, he almost falls back again at the raw hatred he sees staring back at him. It steals the breath from his lungs. George doesn't say anything, just pulls the soldier closer to his chest as Wilbur stares on numbly, uncomprehending. 

A tear slips down his face before Dream vanishes into the safe embrace of the forest. Gone as if he was never there at all. 

The hours he spends at the farm that day are some of the worst he can remember. Dream paces a hole into his floor, and once he’s done with that he starts pacing a hole into the kitchen floor as well. He bites his nails down to the skin, ignoring Patches’ incessant attempts to hold his attention. 

He knows why he didn’t tell George. He knows that after everything, he couldn’t trust him enough not to tell the others. Clearly there were people he cared about inside, and he would have found a way to get them away from the manor. But someone would have noticed. Someone would have connected the pins and all the red string would lead right back to George. 

So Dream hadn’t told him. But the look of ardent betrayal and hatred George had given him said everything. It tore something inside of him, a piece of himself he didn’t think he would ever get back. 

_ Is it me or country?  _

He grips his hair. 

_ You’re my cause, George.  _

Dream had lied. The one good thing in his life, and he had chosen something else. He knows he should run, the entire town could be storming through the woods to his house, holding pitchforks and torches. Dream wouldn’t blame George if he told. But he stays, because on the slim chance that George comes home, he owes him an explanation. 

The sun sinks below the horizon, dragging the warmth of the day with it. Dream lights a few candles, but doesn't bother with the woodstove or the fireplace. He continues pacing, wringing his hands together until they’re rubbed raw. 

An indefinite amount of time later, the door opens. George looks at him with an expression he can’t decipher. Dream’s heart stutters. He’s still beautiful. 

George closes the door, but he doesn't take off his boots or his coat. “Did you do this?” 

“George-” 

“Don’t.” He hisses. “Don’t do that right now. Did you do it?” 

“I-” Dream presses his hands onto the table to keep from fidgeting. “I orchestrated it.” 

“There were kids in there!” George snaps, barely keeping his anger in check. “Did you know that?” 

Bile rises in his throat, thinking about the soldiers that had stumbled out. “No.” 

“Of course you didn’t. Would you have done it anyways? If you knew?” 

Dream opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. 

“Exactly.” George says like a slap across the face. “You don’t care about  _ anything _ . What if I had been in there? Could you have honestly guaranteed that I wouldn’t be in there?” 

“George please.” 

“You can’t! You can’t have guaranteed that!” He cries. “How many times have I saved your life? How many times?”

Dream looks away. “More than I can count.” 

“And this,” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the column of smoke, “is how you fucking thank me?” 

“What would you have had me do?” He snaps. “What would you have done, George?” 

He raises his hands in the air. “You should have told me!” 

“You would have ruined it! You would have exposed the entire ring- me, Nikki, Sapnap! Everyone!” 

“You don’t know that!” George screams. 

“I saw how upset you got over those soldiers! You would have done something, and someone would have figured it out, then it would be both our necks on the chopping block!” 

“Soldiers?  _ Soldiers _ ?” He laughs. “Those were sixteen-year old kids!” 

“You’re tyrants. No matter what goddam age you are.” 

George flinches back. Dream wants to retract the words, but they’re already there, hanging like a noose in the room. George’s eyes narrow and he presses on, “I should have turned you in. You manipulated and lied to me. You only wanted me for information.” 

“George, that’s not true-” 

“You’ve literally proven it true! ‘You’re my cause’ what kinda shit is that?” 

“Damn it, George! I meant it! Every single thing I ever said I meant!” 

“So you meant it.” George spits. “‘You’re tyrants’, ‘you should go back to whatever Hell hole across the Atlantic you crawled from’, ‘lobsterback’, ‘you never think for yourself.’” 

Maybe he meant it at the time. Maybe he meant it in regards to every other redcoat on this continent, who couldn’t see a good thing if it was waving in front of their nose. “I should never have told you anything.” 

George stiffens. “If you’re not gone by morning, I’m telling the major everything. I’ll tell him it’s your fault two sixteen year old kids are dead and we’re all gonna starve this winter.” 

“It’s your fault just as much as it is mine, George. You’re the one who didn’t turn me in.” 

“You lied to me! You made me fucking  _ like  _ you!” 

“You think you’re so good, George.” Dream pushes. “Because you believe in God, and you don’t drink, and you serve the king. You don’t serve the king anymore, you don’t go to church. You’re just as much of a sinner as I am.” 

George’s jaw tightens. “I’m going to tell him  _ everything _ .” 

Dream takes a few deep breaths. What was he doing? The only good thing in his entire miserable life and he was letting it go. 

“There’s a box. At the edge of the field, buried by a tree. It’s got every piece of incriminating evidence you need.” 

George looks away. “You should go.” 

Dream looks at him, but George doesn't look back. With shaking hands, he gathers his things, shoves them in a bag. Grabs all the money he has, a few clothes. His eyes are wet as he recklessly shoves things into the bag and he can hear George slamming doors downstairs. He’s so mad he can barely think, but all he thinks is  _ George _ . He never said Dream’s name. He always says his name. 

He grabs Patches, and doesn't say a word to George as he leaves everything he’s ever worked for. He’s gotten good at disappearing. 

Dream doesn't think, doesn't know what he’s doing until he’s in the middle of the Atlantic with only the stars above him, the entire ocean below him. An ocean of sins. 

This time, he doesn't hold back the emotions. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> \- the phrase 'the shot heard around the world' refers to the opening battle of Lexington and Concord so kudos if you picked up on that tiny reference I threw in  
> \- Techno is loosely based off Major Tallmadge who was a spymaster and commanded the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons  
> \- The raid on White Hall is also based off a real event, in 1780 Major Tallmadge captured Manor St. George on Long Island and burnt it
> 
> Sorry about all the angst guys, I promise they'll work through it haha. Also thank you for being patient with uploads, I'm going to do my best to stick to a Wednesday upload schedule, and I'd estimate we're a little over halfway with this story. I also made a proper Tumblr for this over at pluto-and-back so feel free to ask me any questions about the history or if you just want to talk! Thank you so much, stay safe guys :)


	7. Chapter VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly more religious themes towards the end of this chapter, also time skip??

**December 1777**

**New York City**

The ship was a floating receptacle of human misery in the middle of Wallabout Bay. Even from the shore, Eret could hear the groans of the sick from the  _ HMS Jersey _ .

The ship, better known as the  _ HMS Misery, was _ a sitting eyesore. Ever since the ship had arrived, Eret had become unable to turn away from it. It had become a semi morbid obsession, watching the thing bob in the water, too far from the shore for any sane man to consider jumping. They would probably be shot if they tried. 

Eret knew very well that if he continued on his current path of treason, he could find himself tossed in the hull alongside all the others. Eret probably wouldn’t be so lucky- the fate for British traitors was even worse than the fate of unruly colonists. 

But he couldn’t turn away. So they had written a letter to their contact in Brooklyn, who had readily agreed that something needed to be done about the  _ Jersey _ . 

Eret adjusts his spyglass, focusing on the 60 gun armament. The ship was massive. One-hundred and forty-four feet long, weighing over one ton when empty. He flips through his thoughts, trying to find some feasible way of destroying it without killing the rebel prisoners inside. The longer he sits there, the more frustrated he becomes. No matter which way he turns it, he can’t find a solution to the problem, at least one that does not require an entire army. 

Only, the entire Continental Army had been pressed back behind Philadelphia, into Pennsylvania farmland. From the rumors they had gathered, the army was doomed. Whatever hope there had been in the spring of liberating New York, was dashed to pieces. Eret couldn’t shake the familiar fear that despite everything, he had chosen the wrong side for this war. 

Sighing, he collects his things and carefully exits the abandoned sugar house he had been using to watch the bay. Stuffing the spyglass into the lining of his coat before buttoning it up, he makes his way back to the tavern through the winding and quickly darkening streets of the city. Eret scrunches his nose against the smell of manure and feces, narrowly avoiding stepping in the stuff when he crosses the street. It was almost as bad as London. 

He lowers his gaze as he passes a group of lobsterbacks, before turning down another street. Here, closer to the heart of the city, there was an endless supply of soldiers. Eret’s tavern mostly served redcoats, which was a new development in the past year. Some of the highest ranking officers would stay there when they came for business. Eret didn’t mind. It made for good spying. 

Shaking the cold from his fingers, he opens the door and steps in, breathing in the smell of alcohol and stew. He stomps off the mud from his boots. When looks up he is met with the furious gaze of an officer. 

He offers his best grin, heart stuttering against his ribs. “Hello, sir. Are you in need of a room?” 

The man just grunts. “Are you Alastair?” 

Eret looks around the room. The other patrons are either staring at them or stubbornly looking the other way into their drinks. He glances at the door. It looks like his luck had run out. 

Eret gets about two steps into the street before the man grabs them, rudely twisting his arm behind him and pressing his face into the dirty cobblestones. 

“You are hereby under arrest for crimes against His Majesty King George III.” 

His mind races. Eret had always been careful, built up an inconspicuous character of a British immigrant looking for work, who had moved here well before the war. He had built up his own network of spies throughout the city- people Washington would never consider for the cause. People who had done so much for a country that promised them very little. 

Eret had imagined his arrest time and time again, but never had he seen himself with his cheek pressed roughly against the cobblestones, a small crowd gathered around as an officer read off a list of his supposed crimes. It was rather long, but all he can think about is how he had always been so lucky, so careful. 

Eret is hauled roughly to his feet and forced into a waiting carriage. He tries not to think about all the traitors whose names sit on the tip of his tongue. 

  
  


**Valley Forge, Pennsylvania**

He was dreaming again. Dreaming of him. 

In all his dreams there was warmth, something which had grown into a distant memory over the past year. 

There were varitants to this warmth. Sometimes it was the warm of the summer sun, glowing hot over the world. Other times the steady comfort of a crackling fire, or a body pressed into his. Sometimes it was an entire inferno. 

In all his dreams, George was there. Sometimes he was angry, so furious that Dream would wake up feeling like the gaping hole in his chest had been torn open. Other times, George looked at him so fondly that none of the rest of it mattered. 

In this dream, he is back home. They’re wrapped around each other in front of the fireplace, and George’s hand is in his hair while Dream traces the ugly scar on his shoulder. Gently, he presses his lips to it and George laughs, tugging him closer. 

“Dream.” He whispers, over and over again into his hair. George says it until it no longer sounds like a name. It sounds real. 

They blur into each other, every point of contact. It was as if Dream only existed in the place where he touched him. 

He would open his mouth to speak, George’s name on his tongue, but he never got that far before he would be jolted awake. 

Dream’s heart hammers in his chest as he sits bolt upright in bed. Guilt washes over him like a wave of icy water, and he hates himself almost as much as he hates George. 

Dream takes great gulping breaths, idly pressing his fingers to his lips. He wishes he could be dragged back into the land of sleep, instead of the harsh reality is awoken to. 

He is cramped into a small tent with a dozen other men, all in varying shades of misery. The man on the bunk across from him had broken out with smallpox, a certain death sentence, and another man with pneumonia. Even more had dysentery. Despite all the bodies in the cramped space, the tent is bitterly cold. 

It is still dark out when he awakes, and if he closes his eyes he can pretend he is back in the warmth of his home with George at his side. 

He drags a hand through his long hair. He hated these thoughts. He despised how often they came, how for all his hatred he did very little to push them aside. 

He slips out from his bunk, and pulls on a vest over his white shirt, securing a neck stock at his collar, and the coat of his uniform over that. He pulls on his familiar wool hat, cocking it to the side, before carefully extracting his boots from under his pillow. His boots were by far the most important thing he owned. Some of the men didn’t even have shoes, and they would leave bloody footprints in the snow, their feet completely ruined. 

Dream braces himself for the cold before sliding out of the tent, closing the flap behind him. The moment he steps into the dry, wintry morning his lungs prickle like they’ve been filled with sand, and then he’s bent double at the waist, coughing viscously. 

He waits for the coughing fit to pass. It had started as a dry throat, a dull cough. Overnight, it had become a wheeze. Now was often thrown into these violent coughing fits, bringing fluid out of his lungs. No matter how much he coughed up, there was always more. It left his back sore, and his chest aching. 

Dream takes a desperate gulp of air when once the cough subsides, before staggering off into the woods to take a piss. He feels pathetic. 

Valley Forge. The name alone made him shiver. It was a place of dirty snow and bloody footprints, a place of smallpox scars, and the rattle of pneumonia in a man’s lungs. Dream looks down the hill at the rolling field, stuffed to the brim with hastily set up tents, and poorly constructed wooden huts, each which housed a dozen men. Beyond that, in the distance, is Washington’s headquarters. He bites his tongue. While Washington sat in relative comfort on a little hill above it all, the rest of the 13,000 man army holding the country together by the skin of their teeth, laid in their own disease-riddled filth. 

He had arrived two weeks ago, along with Sapnap and Techno and most of the rest of the Continental Army. More and more slowly trickled in, forced to help with the grueling work of building up miles of trenches, military roads, and paths. Two weeks into their stay, and the once farmland had turned into a small city. 

A biting wind slices across the camp, and Dream shivers into the collar of his jacket. He misses his green one dearly. The blue patriot uniform, while nice to look at, was not particularly warm. 

He meanders slowly through the camp, coughing into his elbow every so often. Dream had technically never enlisted, with nowhere else to go after George had thrown him out, he had retreated into the army. He had been following Techno and Sapnap since then, but Techno adamantly refused to have him trained as a soldier because, as he said it, “Soldiers make terrible spies.” 

So even now, Dream did not participate in the training. He dug trenches and discussed plans with Sapnap, and threw around the idea of spying in Philadelphia, but he never actually did it. 

He thinks he wants to. Even the British-occupied capital had to be better than the hell of Valley Forge. Dream kicks a stone down the path, watches it roll through the snow before being buried by the boot of a passing man. He sighs, turning to watch the man hobble towards the long line of others, clutching their tin bowls and spoons to their chests as they wait for a breakfast of firecake. Which was not nearly as appealing as it sounded. It was a ghastly mixture of flour and water, with absolutely nothing else. Dream looks at the long line of emaciated men. This was the army fighting the greatest empire in the world? 

As what often happens when he’s alone, and even when he’s not, Dream’s thoughts inevitably circle back to George. He thinks back to the dream he had, and he flushes despite the chilling cold. He had never even seen the scar on George’s shoulder, he only knew of it because George had told him about it after he awoke from a nightmare. 

Dream turns and walks along the Schuylkill River. He passes a few men idly manning the cannons, one of whom had secretly lit a fire for warmth, which didn’t seem like the smartest idea but Dream kept his mouth shut as he passed. 

He wonders what George is doing at this moment. He hopes he is warm, and fed, and safe. He hopes that Schlatt isn’t bothering him. Selfishly, he hopes he misses him as much as Dream misses him. The thought comes like an ache in his chest and a stupid mistake. 

Everytime he closes his eyes he sees George’s mismatched eyes staring back at him. He had spent the past twelve months clinging to the thought of George like a lifeline. Dream assured himself that it had all been for the best, George was likely safer without Dream dragging him into a life of sin and treason. 

“Dream!” Someone calls, hurriedly running towards him. He doesn't even have to look to know it’s Sapnap. “I have been looking everywhere for you, got all worried that you went and deserted on us.” 

Dream sighs and plops himself down onto the snow, figuring he couldn’t get much colder than he already was. “Hello.” 

“I got you breakfast.” Sapnap says, plopping himself next to Dream without a second thought. He hands over a tin bowl of firecake, and bile rises in Dream’s throat just from looking at it. He takes it anyway. 

Dream pulls out his spoon from his pocket, the handle bent and broken. He swishes it through the grey substance, trying to dissolve the clumps of flour in the lukewarm water. He resists against the urge to dump it into the snow. 

“Thank you.” He mumbles. 

“Anytime.” Sapnap shoves a spoonful into his mouth. Dream grimaces. His friend did not have the same grievances against firecake as he did. 

Dream looks around, trying to do anything but eat what was in his hands. Lowering in his voice he asks, “When are you going to make another black market run?” 

Sapnaps shrugs. “I want to make one before Christmas. Get us an actual meal and shit.” 

“I’ve still got some money from before I left the farm.” Dream says. “Just tell me how much.” 

He gives him an incredulous look. “I am not going to take your money.” 

“Please? I genuinely cannot eat this shit on Christmas Eve.” 

Sapnap laughs. “I’ll see what I can do.” He nods at the bowl in Dream’s hands. “You should eat that before it gets cold. It’s even worse cold.” 

Dream begrudgingly knows he has a point, and it hadn’t taken him long to realize that as nasty and pointless as firecake was, it would be the only food he would see for a long while. Reluctantly, he takes a bite, swallowing as quickly as possible. 

“Oh, Bad wants to talk with you about spy stuff, so after breakfast you should make a trip to the big house.” 

Dream relaxes slightly. He really did not want to spend the day digging trenches into the frozen mud, or building more huts that did nothing but incubate smallpox. He opens his mouth to say as much, but is instead interrupted by another coughing fit. 

Sapnap pats his back roughly, which doesn't help much but Dream is grateful for the support. He nearly spills his firecake into the snow before he recovers, and Sapnap passes him his canteen full of water. 

“Yeah. I’ll head over in a bit. I want to find Patches first.” He hands back the canteen and takes another gruelling sip of the firecake. 

“I saw her last night. The men love her.” 

“Only because she takes care of the rats.” 

“Isn’t that the only reason you got a cat?” 

Dream coughs. “Possibly.” 

He shakes his head, laughing. Dream finishes the rest of his food, but doesn't make any move to stand up. He watches the water of the Schulykill in the places where the ice hasn't frozen over yet. 

Dream traces his finger through the snow. His half-frozen finger doesn't notice the additional cold. “What do you think George is doing now?” 

Sapnap sighs. He was used to the conversation inevitably circling back to the lieutenant, and he had stopped complaining to Dream about it a long time ago. “I’m sure he’s fine, Dream.” 

“I wish I could write to him.” Dream had drafted a large number of letters since last November, the sentiments in them varied from outright hatred, to grief, to complete and unwavering adoration, and everything in between. Most of them he burned soon after. He never truly considered sending them, and he doesn't care to find out what kind of shit he’ll be in if he’s caught with a love letter addressed to another man. 

“Have you tried?” Sapnap asks, although he clearly doesn't want to have this conversation. 

“Yeah.” Dream mutters, angrily poking his finger into the snow. “It’s no use. I’ll probably never see him again, and I should learn to let him go.” 

His mouth sours at the words. Even now he had subtly convinced himself that George was the only thing that mattered, despite the argument and grievances and the fact that he had absolutely no idea if George was okay. It ate at him like a tick, made his skin crawl when he got too caught up in the uncertainties of it all. 

“Probably.” Sapnap agrees, never one to sugar coat. Dream takes a drink from his canteen, the water so cold it burns his throat. Dream coughs again. 

“You should get that cough looked at.” Sapnap says evenly as he pulls Dream’s finger from the snow. “Could be pneumonia.” 

“I don’t have a fever.” Dream protests, resisting the urge to cough again. 

“Yeah, but that could change. Just do me a favor and get it looked at, okay?” 

He sighs. “Yeah, alright.” 

The day before Christmas is cloudy, the sky the color of shucked oysters. The snow of Valley Forge has turned brown and black with mud, and red in places where the shoeless had treaded over it. In a matter of a few days, the Schulykill had completely frozen over, and it was too cold to expand the trenches because the ground was frozen solid. 

Some Prussian made some vague attempt at spreading Christmas joy by finding a pine tree in the woods, and lugging it into the middle of camp. Most of the Americans stared at it like it was the ugliest thing in the world, until the Prussians started putting lit candles into the branches. Then everyone was hoping it would catch fire and bring some warmth. 

“Hey,” Sapnap whispers, finding Dream amongst the crowd of men staring up at the tree. “Wanna come with me?” 

“Where are we going?”  _ Yes. _

“A few towns over to meet up with the guy who says he’ll sell me some pork.” 

“Will we get shot for deserting?” 

“We’re technically not enlisted.” Sapnap points out, adjusting his gloves. “And Techno will vouch for us.” He starts walking towards his tent. 

Dream follows, hands shoved into his pockets. “What about my uniform?” 

“I’ve still got your old clothes. You can wear those until we get back.” 

Thirty minutes later, Dream feels much more like himself in his green frock coat and tricorn hat as he and Sapnap slip out of the camp. Behind the grey clouds, the sun was just beginning to set. 

They head north, in the exact opposite direction of the approaching British and Hessian Troops. Dream knew vaguely that Washington was going to attempt to intercept them that night, but he doubted anything would come of it. His resource of good men was rapidly depleting. Dream and Sapnap, while still relatively healthy, hadn’t been chosen. Dream suspected it had something to do with Techno, who for the past year had refused to allow either of them into a battle or skirmish for reasons he wouldn’t divulge. 

Dream takes in a deep breath of fresh air, free of the smell of feces, disease, and gunpowder. 

“It’s nice, isn’t it? You get kind of addicted to leaving.” Sapnap says as their boots crunch through the untouched snow. 

“I can’t stand it there.” Dream admits, not bothering to hide the discontent in his voice. “Everywhere you look there’s death, and slowly you start becoming it, too.” 

Sapnap gives him an odd look at that. “I told you to get that cough judged.” 

“Bad looked into it. He just told me to stay warm, drink warm fluids.” He rolls his eyes, pushing aside a low hanging branch filled with snow. “Like there’s so much warmth to go around.” 

He lets go of the branch and it flings back to hit Sapnap square in the face. His friend flinches back, rubbing at his face as Dream dissolves into laughter which deteriorates into a violent coughing fit.

Sapnap, who has a clear mark across his face, pats his friend reassuringly on the back as he coughs up the fluid in his lungs. “I reckon we should turn around.” 

“No.” Dream stands up straighter, breathing deeply. “Anything is better than that perdition. And I’m determined to have a good Christmas.” 

“Dream, I’m serious. If that cough doesn't go away it’s going to be bad. Marching around the woods in the middle of winter is not going to help.” 

“I’m fine.” He hisses. “I know my limits.” 

“You absolutely do not.” 

“Look, the cough isn’t bad. I’m breathing fine. Let’s just go.” 

Sapnap gives him an icy glare, and Dream scowls right back. So much of their relationship had always been built on a battle of wills. When Dream arrived in Long Island, seventeen years old and battered from months in the wilderness, with no clear idea of where to go other than as far north as he could conceivably go, Sapnap had taken him in. They’d been inseparable since, skipping church to go hunting or practice loading rifles until they could do it in well under thirty seconds. 

He remembers the night Sapnap’s house burned, from something as minute as a lit candle. How the scars were still on his hands, and he had never been the same since. 

“For me.” Dream whispers, breath clouding in the air. It was so cold that the moisture in his eyes had collected on his lashes and they were beginning to freeze together. He didn’t want to think about what was happening to the fluid in his lungs. 

Sapnap sighs, pulling off his hat to run a hand through his dark hair. “Fine. But only because I want you to have a good Christmas.” 

By the time Dream and Sapnap had made it back to Valley Forge, a vicious snow storm had settled in. The trees cracked and swayed in the wind, dumping snow and heavy branches to the forest floor. The sun was gone, the only light at all was the small pocket of lantern light from Sapnap’s lamp. 

“Almost there!” Sapnap shouts above the brutal wind as Dream coughs into his elbow. Every breath strains his lungs, and it’s difficult to move air in. It’s as if he’s breathing through a tube. 

“If I’d known there would be a goddam blizzard,” Dream complains after a coughing fit, “I wouldn’t have come.” 

“Hey, I didn’t know about the storm either.” He yells, ducking his head into his collar as a particularly ferocious gust of wind kicks up a slew of snow. 

They had gotten the food from a scraggly looking man, who had set up a little camp for himself in the middle of the woods. Idly, Dream wonders if he is doing okay in the storm.

Dream coughs again, spitting out a wad of blood onto the powdery-white snow. He grimaces, and pulls his bandana over his mouth and nose. His fingers and toes were numb, and the tips of his cheeks. 

“Stupid.” He mutters under his breath. “Stupid, stupid.” 

At long last, they reach the banks of the Schulykill. Haphazardly, they cross the ice-covered river into the continental camp. The ice groans under their feet. Dream figures he can’t get much colder, what’s a dip in the river going to do? 

“C’mon.” Sapnap says, poking at a crack with his boot. “If we hurry we’ll be fine.”

Dream coughs as they skid across, the ice fracturing under their feet. He remembers that for so much of his life, the idea of snow was preposterous, a frozen river impossible. He coughs again, spitting on the ice. How different his life had become. 

They cross the other side, stumbling up the snowy bank. Dream glances back at the Schuylkill, cracks splintering like spiderwebs from where their feet had fallen, but the ice holds firm. 

Sapnap waves off one of the sentries that shouts at them, although it is half hearted at best. The man stands in his own hat, upturned so that he didn’t have to stand barefoot on the ground. Dream coughs again. As bad as he had it, there was always someone who had it worse. 

Sapnap drags him across the camp, past the Christmas tree and into one of the hastily constructed huts. He knocks harshly against the door, shouting, “Open up you bastards! It’s us!” 

The door opens, pushing against the snow bank that had built up against it. Sam cringes as the snow spills onto the dirt floor, but he smiles at Sapnap and Dream. 

“Oh thank the Lord. I thought you guys had frozen out there.” He steps back and they stumble inside, shaking the snow off their clothes and trying to bring feeling back into their hands and feet. The hut smells of cooking stew, and someone had lit a fire in the small fireplace. The others were gathered around it, and Dream was briefly surprised to find that Techno had joined them. He assumed he would have been with the other officers. 

“Almost.” Sapnap laughs, reaching into his bag and pulling out the wrapped ham and vegetables. 

Bad takes the vegetables from him and starts cutting them up. While Sam moves the pot off the fire so they can cook the ham. 

Dream sighs as he collapses onto one of the bunks, coughing violently. 

“Dream!” Bad admonishes. “I told you not to go! Now there’s nothing I can do for that cough.” 

He smiles apologetically. Patches jumps onto his chest and curls up, and Dream runs his hand down her back. “Sorry.” 

“How bad is it out there?” Quackity asks, throwing more sticks onto the flames. He was one of the unlucky bastards missing a pair of shoes. Dream is surprised he can even walk. 

“It’s like Hell freezing over if that’s what you mean.” Sapnap shakes out his boots and sticks his feet by the fire. 

Quackity snorts. “Hell of a Christmas.” 

“Hey,” Dream says, directing it mostly at Techno. “Did Washington still send a party to intercept Howe?” 

“No.” He says, shaking his head. “It would have doomed the army. He couldn’t conjure enough good men for it, and the British and Hessians have about 8,000 troops with them. Our tattered army would have been obliterated.” 

Dream’s heart sinks. If it hadn’t been for the Battle of Saratoga, he thinks the war would have been over at this point. 

“Oh Quackity, I got you a gift.” Sapnap says suddenly, reaching into his bag and pulling out something wrapped in brown paper. He tosses it across the room, and Quackity catches it easily. 

“You didn’t have to do that- holy shit.” He unwraps a pair of boots, his eyes wide. 

“Let me know if they’re your size. They’re a little worn down.” 

He shakes his head. “Anything is better than being barefoot, Jesus. Thank you. How did you even get your hands on these?” 

He shrugs and very pointedly does not look at Bad. “The black market.” 

Quackity laughs. “Tell your guy thank you.” 

“Of course.” 

“This is ridiculous.” Bad says after a moment, shaking his head angrily (or about as angrily as Bad gets). “What kind of army are we if not everyone even has a pair of shoes on their feet? And Dream is over here with pneumonia and there’s nothing we can do for him, much less everyone with smallpox and typhoid.” 

“It’s all congress.” Techno says, eyes dark. “They promised men, munitions, food, clothing. They haven’t done shit.” 

“Language!” Bad hisses, but it’s with considerably less energy than usual. He dumps the vegetables into the soup. The scent of cooking pork and soup wafts through the small hut, easing the pain in Dream’s lungs and throat as he takes in another rattling breath. His hand slides through Patches’ fur, and as always, he wonders about George. Dream shivers, remembering his dream. It hadn’t even been terribly explicit. He had had much worse. 

He hated not knowing where George was. It was like having his bare heart walking around. 

The wind outside howls, threatening to tear down the hut. But for the moment, he is safe and warm, and his eyes slide closed. 

**Long Island**

Over the course of the year, George had gotten good at living in tension. He was accustomed to walking across fields of cracking ice and panes of glass, breathing in air thick with cannonfire. He didn’t think he could ever get used to living like that again, not after the comfortability of living with Dream. 

Regardless, the tension on Christmas dinner was suffocating. He picked at the table cloth as the pastor launched into a ten-minute prayer session, and he clasped his hands together. He tries to remember the last time he went to church. 

The thought of eating made bile rise in his throat as he stared at the table piled high with venison, mince pie, creamed celery, herring, chestnut stuffing, and cabbage. His eyes kept going back to the cabbage, over and over again as the pastor rattled on about the birth of Christ. 

They were not in White Hall anymore. White Hall was little more than a stain of ash on the ground, with a few cracked walls and posts reaching towards the sky like broken fingers. 

The walls surrounding White Hall had been torn down, instead surrounding Fort James, a newly built fort, halfway between the church and the seafront. It was where all the people who had previously lived in White Hall migrated, and with Dream gone, that meant George, too. 

Wilbur shifts awkwardly next to him. George knows that Schlatt is looking at him. 

The pastor clears his throat and continues on, “From the ancient power of sin and death…” 

George wants to rip out his hair. His eyes flit back to the cabbages. Always the cabbages. 

“Help us wait for his coming…” 

One year. An entire lifetime. Not a day passed where George didn’t feel his hands running through Dream’s hair, or the heat of White Hall burning. 

“and lead us to true liberty…” 

Schlatt’s gaze lands on George, icy and burning all at once. He sits up straighter, eyes focused on his clasped hands. His red cuffs. 

The magistrate despised him, and made no attempts to hide it. George didn’t really care, not anymore. Schlatt loved to complain that George must have been in on Dream’s plans, there’s no way George could not have known that Dream was a spy. George was just glad that everyone viewed Schlatt as a sniveling lunatic, and nobody bothered to look into his claims. 

“We ask this through our Lord…” 

George keeps his gaze on the table, head bent in prayer as a bead of sweat slips down the side of his face. The cabbages seem ever closer, and his hands tighten against each other. Surely they had been on the other side of the table? 

“who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit…” 

The guilt weighs on his shoulders like the entire sky. He should stand and confess. The pastor would understand. 

“one God, for ever and ever.” 

Oh. It’s over.

“Amen.” The pastor concludes at last. 

“Amen.” They echo, unclasping their hands and looking up. George rubs his palms against his thighs. He thought he had gotten better at this. 

The others cheerfully pass the food around, talking joyfully of their hopes for a better war once winter is over, and recalling memories of past Chritsmases in England. 

George grabs his cup of water, downing the entire thing in one go. A servant refills it for him, and he drinks the entire glass again, ignoring her curious glance. He can still feel Schlatt’s gaze pouring over him. 

“George,” Wilbur says from his left, grabbing his attention like the godsend he is. “Could you pass the mutton?” 

He sighs, rubbing his eyes before grabbing the plate and handing it over. “Of course.” 

Wilbur frowns. “Are you not going to eat?” 

“I am.” He says quickly, grabbing the nearest plate to him (not the cabbages) and stuffing it onto his plate without looking at what it is. He takes the mutton from Wilbur and throws a slab on his plate, just to emphasize that yes, he is in fact going to eat. 

“Are you alright?” Wilbur mutters, leaning towards him. “You seem tense.” 

“It’s Christmas. Of course I’m tense.” 

“You’re not supposed to be tense on Christmas.” 

George looks at him. He wonders what kind of family Wilbur came from if that was the conclusion he had come to. 

“I’m tired.” He says instead, taking another sip of water. 

“This goes beyond tired.” Wilbur whispers, glaring at the bags beneath George’s eyes. “I don’t know what the hell you’re feeling, but it’s not tired.” 

“Shhh!” He hisses. “The pastor is right there.” 

Wilbur drinks something that is definitely not water. He shrugs. “Nothing he hasn’t heard before.” 

George groans. It was times like these that he really missed Dream. 

“Have you heard about what’s going on in Pennsylvania?” Schlatt says, pleasant as always as he cuts into a piece of meat. 

George picks at the food on his plate as a sergeant answers, “What isn’t going on in Pennsylvania?” 

That gets a few chuckles, and George smiles dryly. He forces a piece of food down his throat. 

“Well it seems that Howe and 8,000 men are venturing out of Philadelphia and heading towards the winter camp.” 

“You reckon Washington will do anything about it?” The sergeant asks. 

“It’s unlikely.” The major says. “From what I heard the continental soldiers can scarcely get out of bed, and there’s a blizzard raining vengeance on them.” 

George grips his fork hard enough to bend it. He didn’t understand how they could talk so easily about the war. Perhaps it was because over the past six months, as the war moved west, it no longer seemed like their problem. 

But George knew in his gut where Dream had gone, and he knew that he was likely freezing his fingers off in Valley Forge. George grits his teeth. He still hated him, hated him for what he did. The thought rings hollow in his mind, like he was trying to convince himself of the fact. 

“I say Howe attacks,” Schlatt pushes, grinning from ear to ear. “make up for Trenton and Princeton last year. One attack on Valley Forge and the war is done.” 

This is followed by a loud murmur of assent amongst those at the table, and George wants to disappear into the storm outside. Wilbur sends him a glance from the corner of his eye, but doesn't say anything. 

“The rebel cause is blasphemy.” The pastor says angrily. “The king was ordained by God. Going against that is-” he shakes his head, unable to finish his sentence. George takes a long gulp of water, and wishes it was something stronger. But he couldn’t afford to lose his control. Not in a room of wolves. 

“Pardon me for asking,” Wilbur says, which is never a good way to begin a conversation. “But isn’t your son a patriot?” 

The pastor, for all his holiness, looks like he wants to reach across the table and wring Wilbur’s neck for the suggestion. “A son is not their father.” 

“What was his name again?” Wilbur taps his chin. George was pretty sure he was stone-cold sober, and just looking for a fight because he saw that he could make one. George isn’t sure he would choose the town’s pastor as the victim of this, but he keeps his mouth shut. “Oh, wasn’t it something like Sap-” 

Before he can finish, the door to the dining room is forced open. It slams hard enough into the wall to leave a dent. Five redcoats rush inside, snow sticking to their uniforms like sugar. 

The major stands, his chair scraping against the new floor. “What is the meaning of this?” 

“Where is Lieutenant Evans?” 

George’s blood runs cold as every pair of eyes in the room snap to him. The redcoats don’t even bother asking anymore questions before they’re dragging him out of his seat with rough hands and a bruising grip. 

Wilbur stands, using his height to tower over the men. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“He is being arrested for crimes against His Majesty the King.” The soldier with the wig says, removing his snow-covered hat. 

“What?” George mumbles weakly as his hands are yanked behind his back. He’s too tired to protest. 

“I knew it!” Schlatt laughs, his grin so big it threatens to crack his face in two. “I  _ knew  _ it!” 

“Now hold on just a moment!” Wilbur shouts over the noise. “What is he being arrested for?” 

“Treason, conspiracy, spying.” The man with the wig has to shout above Schlatt’s laughter. 

George had been waiting for this moment for a long time. He told himself that when it came, he would run. He told himself he wouldn’t let them take him, not easily. 

Sometimes fear made you run, other times it made you freeze up in the same way a rabbit freezes before it’s eaten. He freezes up, stumbling as the men push him roughly towards the door. 

“On whose terms? With what proof?” Wilbur thunders, and the desperation in his voice seeps through. George can’t look at him. Wilbur had already lost Tommy and Tubbo, now he was losing George too. Nikki was still at his sides, her eyes wide with horror and gloved hands covering her mouth. 

“That is none of your business, Captain.” The wigged man says, returning his hat to his head. 

“To hell it’s none of my business! Where are these charges coming from?” 

“Dream!” Schlatt laughs, almost maniacal as he wipes tears from his eyes. “Oh it’s all coming together.” 

George struggles against their hold, finding some motivation buried deep beneath the heavy layers of exhaustion. Dream wouldn’t turn him in. They would never catch Dream. Dream wouldn’t want him to be captured. 

One of the men holding George slaps him, and the motivation trickles away like sand between his fingers. 

“Where are the charges coming from?” Wilbur shouts again, above the din of everyone else’s panic.

“A little birdie in New York.” Says one of the soldiers holding him. George thinks it’s the one that hit him. 

His stomach drops to his shoes. Eret. 

No. He wouldn’t. Not unless they forced it out of him. 

Schlatt won’t stop laughing, something about Dream. The pastor is shouting that it is sacrilegious to make an arrest on Christmas Eve. Wilbur is demanding proof, and the major is yelling at Wilbur to shut up. One of the servants drops a glass of wine. Nikki looks like she’s about to cry. 

George is hauled out the door and to the hall, followed by half the town as he struggles to make his legs move. He stumbles once or twice, and the men holding him take it as an opportunity to shove him. They drag him out into the snow, towards the cellar doors that lead to the hastily established prison. The snow is thrown violently in the wind. It stings his face. 

One of the men opens the cellar doors, and they stumble down into the dim darkness. The procession follows them, all of them angrily shouting above one another. George thinks that he hears Schlatt say something about constructing a gallows, and he almost laughs. He can’t understand what all this is for. Can’t wrap his mind around that it’s all for  _ him _ . 

He’s thrown into a cell, one that is just barely warmer than the blizzard outside. One of the men unbounds his hands before slamming the door closed. George rubs his wrists as the soldiers usher the small crowd out. 

It takes three of them to push Wilbur out. He fights back with a desperation that only a man who has lost everything can muster. 

George lets his head bump against the stone wall. The only light he has to see by is a candle flickering against the wall, already low on wax. He rubs the burns on his wrists again. He wishes he ate more at dinner. 

There’s a lot of things that George wishes. He wishes he had turned Dream in when he had the chances, wishes he had never been quartered with him, wishes he had never left England on some dashed hopes that the army and the New World could offer him something that the Old World could not. There’s a lot of regrets, and they build on his conscience like rocks. 

George had been thrown for loops before. He was accustomed to being used, to being disposable. From his childhood where he lived in the worst of the London slums, to becoming an officer in the Royal Army, to being shoved around and moved like a piece on a chess board. But this time it stung. It drove a knife into the hole Dream had left behind, and twisted it. 

Outside, as the blizzard rages on with a ferocity that shakes the walls of Fort James. Inside, the men argue, shouting profanities and curses above one another as a plan forms. A plan that makes Nikki grit her teeth, and her blood run cold. 

Nikki slips away into the night, still in her party dress, with no idea where to go- only the vague idea of a place of misery in her mind, and a name ringing in her head like church bells. The only person in the world who could make this right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:   
> -I took a couple of creative liberties with this chapter, technically the Cont. Army arrived in Valley Forge on December 19th, so Dream saying he’d been there two weeks technically isn’t correct. Also the snowstorm Dream talks about technically arrived three days before Christmas.   
> -Washington did plan an attack on Christmas Eve, but called it off   
> -Also the Prussians were not there until February, but they were key in turning around the state of the army and turning it into a force that could actually take on the British Empire  
> -Back then Christmas trees were seen as very Pagan, although they were more common in parts of Europe so that’s why the Americans thought it was weird  
> -The Battle of Saratoga was a turning point in the war and the first major American victory in October 1777  
> -Valley Forge and the HMS Jersey were every bit as awful as described, if not worse. They are both super interesting topics to me haha so I felt the need to include them


	8. Chapter VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double update?? pog
> 
> cw// more violence, mentions of hanging

The news arrives the same day that the blizzard is chased away by a calmer wind, one that apologizes for the ones which preceded it. The frigid temperature lingers, but the viscous storm and cutting winds settle into bitter breezes and a pocket of cold air that stalls over Valley Forge. 

Dream shifts forward in the long line of men waiting for dinner, curling his toes in his boots in a vague attempt to warm them. His throat tickles, and he ducks his head into his elbow to cough. It’s the sort of loud, hollow cough that makes people look away. He wants to apologize to the man in front of him, but instead he just reaches into his pocket and coughs into a handkerchief, folding it carefully before anyone else sees the blood splattered on it. 

The man behind him pats him roughly on the back, as though he can dislodge the fluid in Dream’s lungs himself. Dream flinches back from the unfamiliar touch, glaring.

The man withdraws his hand, and Dream vaguely remembers that his name was Karl. He was friends with Sapnap or something. 

“Sorry. I was just trying to help.” 

Dream steps back, putting another foot of distance between them. He shoves the handkerchief into his pocket and shakes his head. “It’s alright.” 

His voice is raspy, dried out from the cold and the cough. He almost doesn't recognize his own voice. Dream clears his throat. 

“I’m on trench duty today.” Karl says as the line shuffles forward, easily changing topics. 

“That’s too bad.” Dream replies, voice still rough. He doesn't really want to be having this conversation. 

“Yeah.” Karl agrees. “Are they letting you stay inside?” 

He should go to the med tents, but he’s pretty sure he would catch something worse than pneumonia if he were to go there. The med tents served as little more than incubation beds of disease, a place for men to linger before they died. 

“No. I’m helping build more huts.” 

Karl cringes. “That’s no fun. Especially with that cough.” 

The line moves forward again, and Dream rolls his shoulders back. “It’s fine.” 

They’re almost to the front of the line, where the camp followers were ladling out spoonfuls of firecake into tin bowls. He sighs, resisting the urge to cough again. 

“I bet if you asked to stay back they would let you. You’re friends with Techno, right?” 

Friends is a strong word, but Dream doesn't voice this as he holds out his bowl and accepts the watery sludge the woman pours into it. He offers a quiet thank you, before shuffling forward through the snow, pressing his hands against the side of the bowl, chasing the vague warmth. 

Karl joins him. Dream has the vague wish that it was George. He wonders what he would do, right now, if George was beside him. He glances at all the men, huddling against the cold. He probably wouldn’t do anything smart. Or appropriate. 

“Oh hey is that Sapnap?” Karl says, waving at someone coming down the hill. 

Dream squints his eyes against the light snow falling from the clouds, barely more than a dusting. There’s no mistaking the figure running down the hill, the long black coat and wide-brimmed hat. Dream frowns. Sapnap never ran unless he had a good reason. 

“Is he alright?” Karl asks, watching him tread a path through the snow. 

Dream shrugs, curling his fingers around the bowl, still chasing the warmth. “Probably not.” 

“You don’t even care.” Karl hisses, and Dream didn’t think he was even capable of anger. “He’s running like the British are on his heels and you barely looked up.” 

“You aren’t running to his side, either.” Dream comments, taking a sip of firecake. It burns his throat. 

Karl opens his mouth to respond, the snow clinging to the black wool of his hat, but Sapnap barrels to a stop in front of them. He’s bent in half, clutching his knees and drawing deep breaths into his lungs. 

“Are you alright?” Karl rubs Sapnap’s back, and Dream doesn't miss how Sapnap doesn't turn away, not the way Dream did. 

Sapnap straightens, still panting. “Dream.” 

“What happened?” 

Sapnap takes another deep breath. He is unable to meet Dream’s eyes before he speaks, and what he says shatters Dream like ice. “It’s George.” 

The bowl in his hands tumbles to the ground, warmth seeping like blood into the snow. 

He’s shaking. It’s all too much- the cold, the pain in his lungs, the broken piece of his heart. 

Dream never should have left him. What had he been thinking? He doesn't even remember George’s anger, the way his words cracked against his skin like punches. All he remembers now is George’s smile, the raw happiness that settled in Dream’s stomach after seeing him. He should have stayed. Dream had no excuse for leaving. 

If he had stayed, none of this would have happened. If Dream had stayed, George wouldn’t be shackled to a jail cell, or walking towards the gallows in five days time. 

Dream grips the table in front of him, nails digging into the wood and leaving behind crescents. Nikki is standing beside him, in the most tattered blue dress Dream has ever seen in his life. Her face was marred by frostbite, and her long hair had frozen into strands. Her mop cap was barely on her head. Dream can’t imagine what the last couple of days have been like for her. 

“Could you- could you repeat that again?” He asks, straining to keep his tone in check. 

Nikki sighs. She looks exhausted, barely standing on her feet. Outside the hut there is a panting horse, and Dream coughs again as she repeats her story once more. 

“On Christmas Eve five lobsterbacks entered Fort James.” Her voice is rough from the cold, her accent stronger than ever. “They arrested George because apparently they had caught someone in New York who had spilt his name. He is going to have a trial- likely today, but with Schlatt as magistrate…” 

She lets the words hang in the air. She doesn't need to finish the sentence for them to understand. Dream shakes his head, an ocean of worry and anger swirling in his gut. He digs his hands further into the table. “Schlatt hates George.” 

Nikki nods slowly. “The past year has,” she pauses, searching for the words as Dream glares at the table, “been hard on him. He and Schlatt haven’t gotten along.” 

It only solidifies the fact that Dream absolutely should not have left. He sets his hat on the table and runs his hands through his hair. “Shit.” 

Around them is everyone who has somehow joined their little circle- Techno, Quackity, Sapnap, Karl, Sam, and Bad. Most of them likely had no idea who George, Schlatt, or Nikki were, but the concern was evident on Dream’s face. No one had ever seen him like this. 

“Okay.” He says slowly, because he can feel everyone looking at him. He’s shaking apart at the edges thinking about George being hurt. “How do we get him out?” 

“We don’t.” Techno says, leaning against the door to ensure no one else entered. 

Dream’s eyes narrow. “What?” 

Techno sighs, adjusting the dragoon helmet under his arm. “I am not about to send my dwindling supply of good men to save a converted lobsterback. One that as far as I know, has done very little to prove that he is a part of the cause.” 

The ocean in Dream’s chest surges, and both Nikki and Sapnap take a few steps back from him. 

“Done  _ nothing _ ? You don’t know shit about him or what he’s done.” He hisses. “You are in no position to dictate whose life matters.” 

Techno sighs again. Dream sort of wants to hit him. “Actually, I can. I outrank you by about seven positions.” 

Dream grits his teeth so hard they threaten to crack. “I’m not a part of the army.” 

“So long as you wear that uniform and reside at Valley Forge you are a part of the Continental Army.” Techno steps away from the door, his voice dragging out the syllables of each word, in no hurry to reach the next. He sounds bored. 

“If I was going to be hanged you would do something.” Dream pushes, he’s not yelling. He thinks he should be, at least when it’s George’s life they’re talking about. “I know Washington has wanted to get a foothold on Long Island since New York was captured. Use this as that opportunity.” 

“I don’t know if you’ve been here the last few weeks, but every man we have is stuffed into this valley at the moment, and most of them will not live to see spring. Yes, Washington wants Long Island, but it is not going to happen this winter. Not with this army.” 

Dream shakes his head. “Then I’ll go.” 

Techno’s eyes narrow, and Sapnap opens his mouth as if to say something but he’s cut off by Techno before he can speak.

“If you desert this army to rescue a British soldier then you’ll be charged as a turncoat and a traitor.” He hisses, all false calm drained from his words. Now he sounds like the man who leads armies, who people listen to. Serious as the grave. The light from the candle flickers across his face, throwing it into shadow and light. 

A turncoat. That’s probably what they called George. Something twists in his gut at the thought, but it’s not unpleasant. The words should feel like a slap in the face, like Techno has poured cold water on his head, but once again all he can think about is that George is in trouble. 

Dream leans back from the table, prying his nails out of the place where he’d indented them into the wood. “I suppose you better get the firing squad then.” 

Nikki gasps, and Bad makes a noise of protest in his throat. Over the past few weeks, many men had deserted, fleeing for home. Those who were caught were usually shot. 

Dream stands in front of Techno, a few feet from the door. Techno’s eyes are dark, but tired. His pink hair falls in front of his face. There’s a million stories and questions in his gaze, but eventually he whispers, “I will give you two hours to get out of here.” 

Dream almost smiles. “Then step aside.” 

Techno looks like he wants to hit him, or maybe ask why his best spy was throwing away everything again. But he doesn't. Instead he gives a tired sigh, and steps away from the door. 

Dream takes a deep breath, one that rattles in his lungs as he steps out into the darkening world. 

He walks hurriedly through the camp, strides long and purposeful in a way they haven’t been since last year. He walks through the long lines of tents and cabins, a light snow hitting his cheeks. Emaciated men watch him pass, eyes wide and gazes hollow. 

Someone runs up behind him, and he’s briefly surprised to find it’s Nikki, not Sapnap. 

“I think you’re making the right choice.” She says quietly. 

Dream sighs. “I hope so.” 

“The revolution will not give you what George can.” 

He releases a stuttering breath. “I know. I’ve already messed up once. I have to make it right.” 

She follows him into his tent, which is thankfully empty. He gathers his old clothes and starts pulling off his uniform. 

“Do you have paper?” Nikki asks, sitting on one of the bunks. 

Dream pulls off his neck stock then bends down and grabs his notebook, one that he used to fill with information about the redcoats. He tosses it to her, and she catches it easily and pulls out a piece of charcoal from her pocket. 

He throws his blue coat onto his bunk and glances over. “What are you doing?” 

“Sketching Fort James.” She replies. “You’ll need it.” 

Dream looks at her, shocked by the kindness of the gesture. Out of everyone in the room, Nikki had been the only one to support his decision, the only one willing to help. Maybe it’s why he can’t help asking the question, “Why are you aiding me?” 

She doesn't even glance up. “I’m not doing this for you. I think you’re a prick with ego issues and I think the raid on White Hall wasn’t entirely justifiable. But George doesn't deserve whatever you’ve dragged him into and he certainly doesn't deserve to be hanged.” 

She hands him his notebook when she finishes speaking, hands stained black from the charcoal. The floors and rooms are crudely labeled, but before he can say anything she jabs at a large square labeled “jail”. His heart falters. 

“That’s where George is.” She explains. “It’s in the basement, and the entrance to it is outside, not through the house.” 

His throat swells, both from her kindness and also from the fact that this was very much happening. His blue coat lay in a discarded heap on his bunk. Dream runs his thumb over the room labeled  _ jail _ , his finger marring the charcoal line. 

“Thank you, Nikki.” Dream mutters. He means it. 

She nods. “I can’t go back. The ring is busted.” 

Dream puts the notebook in the inner pocket of his green coat, and coughs before he speaks again. “I know. I can’t fail.” 

“No, you can’t.” She agrees as he adjusts his hat. “But you’re Dream.” 

He laughs dryly. It hurts his lungs. “Just Dream.” 

Nikki frowns and pushes him towards the door after he ties his bandana over his face. “That doesn't suit you.” 

“What?” 

She shakes her head. “Just go. Techno only gave you a two hour head start.” 

Dream nods. He thinks he should thank her again, ask her more questions about how George has been. If he’s missed him as much as Dream missed him, if he was doing alright before he was arrested. But he doesn't say any of it. 

“Watch Patches for me, yeah?” 

She smiles. “Of course.” 

He tips his hat towards her before vanishing into the darkening night, boots treading over bloody footprints. His back turned on the revolution, his blue coat a discarded pile on his bunk. 

Dream steals a horse. It’s not his proudest moment. 

Techno had given him two hours to leave, but that grace apparently did not extend so far when he stole a horse. 

Dream figures it would take him about three days to walk to Long Island; it had taken Nikki about two on horseback. But Dream is desperate. He can do it in a little over one. 

Thus, stealing the horse. 

The guards outside the stables look ready to fall asleep, half heartedly grip their rifles to their chests, and blink up at the falling snow. Their eyes droop into the bags beneath them. 

Dream almost laughs as he slides through the window, his boots landing on trodden hay. The guards were only there to keep people like him from taking a horse and deserting, or some desperately emaciated soldier from trying to eat them. 

He takes a deep breath once he’s inside, his hands shaking. He can still turn back now. He hadn’t deserted yet. If he stole this horse, there would be no coming back. 

Dream remembers the way George looked at him, his brown eye catching the light of the dying fire. His touch featherlight and careful against Dream, his smile so wide it made his eyes squint. 

Dream’s hands stop shaking, and before he can back out, he grabs the reigns of the strongest-looking mare in the stable. He picks up a stone and tosses it as far out the window as he can. It bounces against the side of a tree. 

Dream holds his breath as the guards mumble amongst themselves. They exchange a few words back and forth, breath hushed. Dream reaches for another stone, prepared to throw it again, but the men shrug and move away from the stable doors, their footsteps crunching against the frozen snow. 

Grinning, Dream hoists himself onto the back of the mare. In one fluid motion, he hits the back of the horse, and she rockets forward as if she had been waiting her entire lifetime for this. The doors fly open, the cold night hitting Dream like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. He grips the reins and pulls them east, the horse responds easily under him. 

The guards are shouting, voices cracking like whips in the night. Dream smiles, and presses himself flat against the back of the horse as she flies through the woods. Gunshots ricochet off the trees, and men stumble out of their tents as they run past. His heart pounds in time with the hooves beating against the snow. 

Dream laughs. Musket fire echoes all around him, but he’s going so fast that they don’t stand a chance of hitting him. The horse, most likely a cavalry horse, doesn't even flinch. The word “deserter” travels down the line. Dream just laughs and laughs, bracing himself as the horse vaults them across the frozen Schuylkill. The cracks from when he and Sapnap crossed it are still splintered like spiderwebs across the ice. 

The horse tears through the forest, the light snow cuts like a knife across Dream’s face. He leans low on the horse to avoid hanging branches. His breath hitches in his throat, and he’s caught in a painful place of trying to laugh and cough all at once. His head spins like he’s drunk, but a buoyant lightness fills his chest as Valley Forge is swallowed by the woods. Dream hits the back of the horse again, spurring her onwards. 

His resolve settles like rocks in a river. He was going home. 

Dream reaches Long Island, just over a day later. He is guided home by the rising moon, and the swelling scent of the sea. There’s a steady beat against his ribs, a compass guiding him towards George. 

His fingers are frozen together when he and the horse stumble onto his forgotten farm. There is no light glowing from the windows, no smoke curling from the chimney. One of the windows has been smashed open, and snow drifts inside onto the floor. 

Dream slides off the horse’s back, stumbling on his shaky legs like a toddler. He reaches out for a tree, steadying himself warily as the horse collapses onto the snow; too exhausted to stand. 

Dream is inclined to join her. He feels as if he has been rattled inside a tin can for the past twenty-four hours. His toes and fingers are numb, as if he could snap them off if he pleased. Snow descends from the sky, light as sugar. It covers his tracks, wipes any trace of him from the world like an eraser over a blackboard. 

He coughs onto the snow, and his breaths come in sharp wheezes that are uncomfortable to listen to, even to himself. It takes many minutes for Dream to gather himself enough to stumble like a drunk towards his front door, the door of a place he thought he left for good. 

The handle of the door has been broken and smashed, likely from squatters breaking in to stay for a few days. Without a fire, the house was barely warmer than the night outside, but at least he was out of the harsh wind and swirling snow. Dream rubs his hands together in a vague attempt to warm them, shivering like a leaf in the wind as he steps over fallen furniture and his disheveled things. Dust covers the ground like ash, and it looks like it has been much longer than a year since anyone was here. 

As he stands in the ghost of a home, he’s assaulted by a wave of memories. Memories of when he first bought the house after living with Sapnap for a year, how excited he had been to finally have something he could call his own. He remembers the disaster that was his first crop, and how he barely ate that winter. His second crop was almost a disaster too, until the old man down the road had shown him the proper way to till the fields and plant the seeds. Dream had gotten Patches that same year, as taxes began to sharply increase. 

Dream considered all of these memories, but the ones which stuck out to him were, predictably, the ones of George. Dream can’t forget the way his hands brushed his side when he carefully removed the stitches, or how George had flinched back when Dream had jolted, clutching his bleeding side. 

Once, only a week or so after George had arrived, he had helped Dream pull up cabbages. They didn’t say anything to each other, didn’t need to. Dream had just laughed as he watched George’s weak attempt to pry a head of cabbage from the dirt, before he walked over and guided George’s fingers into the right place. Dream had shown him how to twist it, how to cut away the roots. George didn’t seem like he paid that close attention because Dream could feel his fluttering pulse in his wrists. George had refused to meet his eyes. 

He remembers Sapnap shooting at George, how Dream’s terrified heart had never fully recovered from that. He misses going for walks with George through the woods, sometimes talking vehemently, other times saying nothing at all. George used to read the books in his bookshelf, and always complained that he didn’t have Shakespeare. Dream misses when George would card his fingers through his hair, absently playing with the knotted curls. 

Now, Dream stands in an empty house, painted in shades of grey with smashed windows and a broken door. An emptiness of his own creation. 

It hits him then, like a brick to the head, that he loves him. Perhaps he always had, but the realization makes him grab onto the back of a chair to steady himself, press a hand to his chest and feel the stuttering beat of his heart against his hand. Dream loves him. He loves his smile, his one brown eye and his own blue eye. He loves the way his accent shapes words, the way he says Dream’s name. His fingers tighten around the back of the chair, his breath clattering in his lungs. 

He loves his dark hair and his sense of humor. Dream loves George’s hands, and his courage. Dream sits down, still holding his chest and reminding himself to breathe. He was drowning, drowning in him. 

And he had let him go, and now he was going to be hanged. 

George had always been sunlight falling through tree branches, snow sparkling in the morning, but he had also been the taste of blood, the feeling of all of Dream’s nerves being lit on fire one by one. He should feel more resentment towards the idea than he does, and maybe there’s some underlying metaphor in the burning sensation George evokes from him, but Dream has never been great with literature. 

He sits down in the chair, and a mouse scurries in the shadows of the house. His legs are jelly, unable to support him. He runs a hand through his long hair and wishes it was George’s and not his own. 

Oh. He had it bad. 

Dream had abandoned the Continental Army, abandoned the revolution. His morals lay in tattered remains around him. 

He had found something to fight for, and he had left it. Maybe he’d never been good at being a team player, or being a cog in a machine. He’d always toed the line between self-respecting and cocky, between careful and distrusting. 

But what was the revolution about if not morals and individualism? Maybe Dream had never understood that. 

He wonders if it’s cold where George is. If he has eaten, if they’ve been kind to him. As kind as the lobsterbacks could be to a turncoat. 

Dream rubs his eyes with numb hands and stares longingly at the fireplace. He couldn’t risk lighting a fire and announcing that he was back. Instead he stands on his still unsteady legs, and pokes through the cabinets. Most of the food he’d had had been picked clean by the squatters, but a quick trip to the basement reveals that most of that food was relatively untouched. He sits on the steps, where Sapnap had shot at George, and picks at a jar of pickled cabbage with his broken fork from Valley Forge. He devours the entire jar, and reaches for another. He’d probably end up vomiting it, but at least it wasn’t uncooked firecake. 

His hands are red and cracked as they run over the spine of the notebook. Dream flips it to the page with Nikki’s rough sketch of Fort James, his thumb smoothing over the cellar where George was. He takes a deep breath, one that hurts his chest, and begins to plan. 

He falls asleep like that, two empty jars beside him with his head resting against the cold wall. Dream’s neck and back protest violently as he stands, cursing himself for falling asleep. George didn’t have time for Dream to sleep. 

He flicks through the pages of the notebook and lands on the vague concept of a plan he had sketched out the previous night. He chances lighting the wood stove to boil a pot of beans. The plan wasn’t bad, for something he cooked up when he was severely sleep-deprived and half-starved. Today he would need to watch the fort, get a feel for its size and the numbers within it, and watch the guard rotations. As much as he wanted to do something brash like blow the whole thing apart, the only thing that mattered was getting George out. 

Dream wrings his dried hands together, watching the water boil. The beans simmer at the bottom. The sun was just beginning to rise outside, and through the trees he could see his stolen horse poking under the snow for grass. Dream rubs his eyes, and it’s only when the horse noses at a particular tree that his eyes snap open. Then he’s rushing out the back door, towards the tree. 

He pushes the horse away, and shovels the snow back from the ground. There was a small patch of dirt, devoid of any grass. The only indication of what had been buried. 

He returns with a shovel, his lungs tight as he stabs it through the frozen ground. Dream scoops out the dirt, tossing it over his shoulder and onto the snow. He isn’t even sure if it still matters- but that doesn't change that he  _ has  _ to know. 

The box isn’t buried very deep, but the dirt had hardened and frozen through, just like the soil at Valley Forge. Dream coughs when the shovel strikes something wooden, and he brushes back the dirt with his own hands until he can wriggle out the small box. 

Inside are all the things he had buried a year and a half ago. The stolen letters and reports, his copy of  _ Common Sense _ , the rebel newspaper, a notebook, and a blue scarf the color of the patriot uniform. Dream frowns as he holds each object. He was certain that George would have dug it up and turned it in. He was surprised to find the box still there, shocked further that all the objects inside appeared untouched. 

His eyes stray back to  _ Common Sense _ and he flips through it. The paper was brittle under his fingers, and some of the ink had run and bled through, making the sentences indistinguible. But one section stands out, and a grin melts over his face. 

Underlined in thick and careful ink, like that from a quill is the line, ‘ _ A long habit of not thinking a thing wrong, gives it a superficial appearance of being right, and raises at first a formidable outcry in defense of custom. But the tumult soon subsides. Time makes more converts than reason. _ ’

A lifetime ago. A wagon going west and a tenuous string of trust after a party. Dream’s smile widens, his stomach fluttering. The line ‘ _ time makes more converts than reason’  _ had been circled multiple times. Dream hadn’t done that. 

He could cry. George had dug it up, found all the proof he needed, and he had put it right back. He had taken the time to find the section Dream had quoted to him and underlined it- a message that only Dream would understand. He runs his thumb over the marks George left behind, his smile softening. It feels something like forgiveness. 

Dream’s finger is featherlight against the trigger, his gaze glued to the back of a tall lobsterback. He shifts slightly, exhaling into the frozen air. The branch beneath him shifts subtly, snow falling from it’s boughs. But the redcoat doesn't notice, don't look back at the shadow in the trees and the glint of a musket in the dying light. 

The low sun stretches the man’s shadow across the snow-packed trail. Dream had been sitting here for the better part of an hour, timing the man’s movements down to the second, counting the number of steps he took from one tree to the next. 

He was patrolling the outskirts of the town. It made Dream nervous. They hadn’t done that when he still lived here, the redcoats must have reason to suspect that an attack will come. He bites his tongue. They had good reason to be suspicious. 

The redcoat turns around on his heel, creating an indent in the snow and dutifully marching back the way he came, towards Dream. He was slightly shorter than Dream, and a little broader, but he would have to make do. 

He breathes out again, and aims. He waits a breath for the lobsterback to come a few steps closer, before his finger squeezes the trigger. The man falls like a marionette with its strings cut, the shot echoing across the world. 

Dream throws his musket over his shoulder and scampers down the tree towards the fallen lobsterback. The musket ball had gone clean through his head, and he was thankfully bleeding out on the snow and not onto his uniform. Dream strains his ears for a minute, but nobody else heard the shot. 

He drags the body off the road, the same road he and George took to get to New York. Once he’s in the relative safety of the trees, he removes the man’s uniform and stuffs it into his bag. He coughs as he works, cringing at the blood that stains his hands. 

Distantly, he hears voices coming down the trail. He shoves the last piece of the uniform he needs into his bag before climbing the nearest tree to avoid leaving footprints in the snow. He doesn't wait for the reaction, for the chase. He is already gone, the uniform poking out of his bag like a crumpled flag. 

Dream doesn't look good in red. 

It’s the only thought which passes through his mind as he stares at his reflection. His skin itches under the coat, it’s a little tight on the shoulders and loose at the waist. His green goat is folded over the back of a chair, forgotten. 

It was snowing once more, viscous and angry. The wind howled, pounding against the door of his house and screeching through the broken window. Dream adjusts his tricorn, pulling it low over his eyes and slinging his musket over shoulder. He had just loaded it, and the cartridge bag he’d stolen from the dead redcoat hangs from his sash. He adjusts the uniform again, wondering how on earth George could stand to where it so often. 

He takes a long look around the house, and wonders if this will really be the last time he sees it. He doesn't know where he's going to go once he gets George, no where was safe for them. Not when the hand of the British empire stretched to the far corners of the globe, and Dream was a known deserter. He doesn't think it will matter, so long as George is at his side once more. 

There’s a nagging fear in the back of his mind, eating at him like a tick. George might not want anything to do with him. Dream could be horribly misinterpreting the message he left behind in  _ Common Sense.  _

It had been over a year since they had last spoken. Dream tries not to think about it as he swings into the saddle of the horse, and points her towards Fort James. He genuinely doesn’t know what he will do if George turns him away, tells him he’d rather be hanged for his crimes than run away with him. 

The snow stings his face as they trudge through the snow and into the angry wind. It was almost impossible to see anything, and Dream was relying on blind intuition to guide him towards Fort James. Over the past two days, he had frequently hidden himself in the trees. He had taken careful note of the guard rotations, the numbers within the fort, the layout and how it compared to the drawing Nikki had given him. 

He coughs, guiding the horse to the left. He thought that after Valley Forge he would be accustomed to the cold, but the unrelenting storm makes his numb fingers curl over the reigns and freeze. He can’t help but think that he was never built for the brutal northeastern cold. 

Eventually, Fort James looms like a monolith through the trees. It was perched on one of the small cliffs above the town, overlooking the sea. The ocean was rough from the wind, tossing about the boats in the harbor below them. Gray waves slapped angrily against the cliffs. 

Fort James stood proud and tall, just beyond the treeline with a wooden wall surrounding it. Guards shuffled through the snow, but there were not nearly as many as Dream remembers from the last time he was here. He smiles, perhaps the storm was a blessing in disguise. At the very least, it would hide his tracks. 

Dream ties the horse to a tree, far enough back from the fort that she wouldn’t be spotted. Dream loops the long way around to the entrance, sticking close to the trees. He takes a deep breath, eyes trained on the two soldiers standing outside the wall, cringing in the harsh wind. Dream wants to laugh and tell them,  _ this isn’t Valley Forge, assholes _ . 

Instead he takes another deep breath that rattles the fluid in his lungs, and stumbles through the trees. The guards watch him warily as he approaches, frowning at one another. 

In what is quite possibly the worst British accent attempted in all the thirteen colonies, Dream asks, “What time is it?” 

The guards glance at one another, their black tricorns dusted with snow. The one on the right shifts uncomfortably, but says, “About twelve o’clock mate. What in the world are you doing?” 

Dream slurs his words, doing his best to appear drunk. Too drunk to stand, to remember where he was supposed to be. “Shit. I’m late for my post.” 

The soldier on the left snickers. “Had too many drinks at the tavern, eh?” 

Dream laughs. “Something like that.” 

The other just rolls his eyes but steps aside, “Go on. I’m not even sure it’s worth showing up to your post.” 

Dream laughs again, which dissolves into a coughing fit. The guards share another concerned look with one another, but Dream stumbles past them before they can protest. He clears his throat as the coughing subsides, heart pounding. Some security system they had. 

He stumbles towards the munitions room, which is on the other side of the fort from George. He flexes his palm, his fingers reaching outwards before relaxing at his side. His other hand grips his musket. A few soldiers glance at him, but most ignore him. Dream’s heart pounds heavily against his ribs. He didn’t believe he would get this far. 

He throws open the door to the munitions room, shocked to find it unlocked and empty. When he had watched from afar, he had never seen it guarded or locked. Perhaps the redcoats were just cocky in their belief that they were untouchable. Long Island was situated deep in British territory, Dream supposes the men at Fort James had every right to believe they were untouchable. 

Dream grins as he steps in, the room was dark and musty because they couldn’t risk lighting a candle. It smelt of gunpowder and steel bullets. Barrells full of gunpowder and charges lined the walls and floor. Powder was scattered across the floor from where it had split. Extra rifles and muskets hung from the walls, and there were even crates heavy with cannonballs. Dream’s mouth falls open, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but this wasn’t a peacetime munitions room, or even an occupation munitions room. This was a wartime magazine. 

The stench of the gunpowder hurts his lungs and throat. He adjusts his hat, his nerves settling until all he can hear is the old brag of his heart. He traces a hand along a shelf, and it comes back coated in gunpowder, fine as dust. 

Dream steps out of the room, and looks over his shoulders, but he is alone other than the far away soldiers at the guardtowers. He takes a deep breath of the freezing winter air, snow coating his lungs and throat like ash. The wind whips the red coat all around him, his hat pulled low enough over his face that his eyes and nose were lost in shadow. From his pocket he withdraws a book of matches.

He strikes a match, the glow briefly illuminates his bright eyes, the freckles dusting his cheeks, before it is tossed into the room. Dream dosen’t wait to see what happens next. He turns, coattail flapping in the wind, and runs. 

The flame hungrily devours the gunpowder dust littering the floor and walls, follows it into the barrels and muskets and cannonballs. Dream is barely ten steps into the snow before the entire room explodes like a powderkeg, a cacophony of heat and flame. It tosses Dream a few feet forwards, but he only stumbles and continues running. 

“Hey!” Someone shouts behind him, and Dream curses beneath his breath. He forces his weakened legs to continue running, and his shattered lungs to continue to breathe. The sound of blood rushes through his head, his right ear rings like a bell. 

Another shout goes up, and musketballs shatter the dirt around him, breaking holes into the wall of Fort James. He barrels around the corner, and all he can see is the innocent doors that lead to the cellar. He meant for the explosion to distract the men so that he could easily break George out and disappear into the woods, and take the horse to freedom. But now  _ he  _ is the distraction, and Jesus Christ Dream really just tried to infiltrate a British fort all alone. 

He is almost to the cellar doors, so close that if he were to call out for him, George would hear. The doors are the only things he can see, his vision tunnelled onto it. His heart beats for it. 

Maybe if his ear had been working correctly, he would have known someone was coming. Maybe if he hadn’t been blinded by desperation and unwavering adoration and fear, he would have seen the person coming. But seeing as he was, Dream didn’t notice the figure until he was tackled into the snow. 

His back hits the ground with a painful thud, and his vision swims as he kicks the figure off him. But he was weakened by weeks of a diet consisting only of flour and water, and the man hardly flinches. Dream’s tricorn falls into the snow as Schlatt grins down at him, eyes wide with glee as he presses a knife into his throat. 

“Hey, Dreamie.” 

His blood runs cold. Distantly, he thinks he hears someone else shouting. He can’t focus on anything other than the knife at his throat and Schlatt’s maniacal grin. “I was praying you would come.” 

Quick as a burst of gunfire, Dream flicks a knife from the cuff of his coat and thrusts it into the shoulder of Schlatt’s arm holding the knife at his throat. Dream grimaces and twists the knife roughly, tearing nerves and tendon. Schlatt seems nearly unfazed. His grin only widens, and he presses his knife harder into Dream’s throat. He swallows and the knife moves against him. 

“You’re going to have to do better than that.” 

Dream forces the knife all the way to the hilt. Schlatt only exhales. 

“On New Year's Day,” he hisses, breath clouding in the cold night “when we celebrate the Lord's good year of seventeen-eighty eight, I will have both of you traitors on the gallows. Side by side in sin.” 

Dream grits his teeth, grip knuckle-white on the knife. “Don’t touch him. Don’t fucking touch him.” 

Schlatt’s smile widens, threatens to crack his face in half. “I don’t believe that you are in a position to negotiate this.” 

Around him, the click of muskets uncocking fills the air, leaving behind a silence so obsolete that even the blizzard could not bury it. He doesn't look away from Schlatt or his manic gaze. Schlatt looked like a man set on fire. He digs his knee into the old wound in Dream’s side. 

In all his visions of death, Dream never imagined it like this- back in the snow with a knife at his throat, wearing a coat the color of blood, surrounded by men with muskets all aiming for his head. 

He was good. He was fast, and slick, and sharp as a bayonet. But even he couldn’t find a way out of this. He can smell smoke on the wind, mixing with the snow. His own breath clouds in front of his face, the only reminder that he is alive. 

Slowly, he releases his grip on the knife in Schlatt’s shoulder. Finger by finger, he lets go of the knife and drops his dry and bleeding hands to his side. Schlatt smiles, digging the blade in more, enough to draw a thin line of blood before he stands, towering over Dream. 

“Arrest him for crimes against His Majesty.” 

Then the world explodes. Again. 

It comes from the trees, and from the guard posts over the wall. Gunfire rains down and the redcoats surrounding him crumple. Schlatt screams in rage, but Dream kicks out and sends him topping into the snow. He jumps to his feet and runs for the cellar door, his heart frantic in his chest. His finger wraps around the handle, only for him to be tackled to the ground  _ again _ . 

At this point it’s sort of embarrassing. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dream yells at Sapnap. 

“Saving your ass. Come on, we’ve gotta go.” 

Around them the fight continues, a maelstrom of confusion and gunfire. A used musket round rolls past Dream’s head, leaving a small trail in the fresh snow. 

“Not without George.” 

Sapnap’s glare hardens. “Yes, without George.” 

Dream shoves him off, jumping to his feet and yanking open the cellar door. He gets a glance of a wide-eyed gaze, one brown eye and one blue eye. There’s a million emotions swimming between them, a lifetime and a year and all the time in between. All he thinks is,  _ oh. It’s you.  _

Then a heavy weight is slamming into the back of his head, and his thoughts settle like stone to the bottom of the ocean. He doesn't think much of anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:   
> -Camp followers were women, usually wives or sisters of the soldiers, who chose to follow the army and live in a separate camp behind them. They usually helped cook, clean, and sew uniforms.   
> -During this time period it was common for wars to typically be put “on hold” for the winter, because no one wanted to fight in the cold, and instead gather resources for a spring campaign. That was why Dream caught them so much by surprise.


	9. Chapter IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same cw as last chapter, and past mentions of homophobia

When Dream awakes the world is shifting, rolling and swelling like the waves of the sea. It’s so strange that for a moment he thinks he is falling through the sky, just like Icarus. 

When he opens his eyes, he is in an unfamiliar room. Lanterns swing from the low rafters and on the opposite side of the room there are hammocks stacked like sardines. He rubs his eyes, he can’t remember coming here. The back of his head aches with every pulse of his heart, and the breath in his lungs is a dry wheeze. He rubs his neck, remembers the pressure of a knife. 

He staggers out of the hammock, and the floor beneath him sways. Dream remembers the chaos of Fort James, the snowstorm, the kiss of a knife against his throat, cellar doors, and the brief and terrified moment his eyes met George’s. 

Dream grabs onto a post to steady himself at the rush of memories. He had been devastatingly close to getting George back, so close that for a moment their eyes had met and the world had stopped. 

That was just it, wasn’t it? The world turned and turned and never stopped, didn’t so much as slow down. It didn’t stop for the Declaration of Independence, or war, or millions and millions of deaths. But it stopped when George’s eyes met his — suspended in that shivering moment between heartbeats. 

The world rolls again, and faintly he can smell brine and seasalt. His stomach drops to his toes. Was he on a ship? What happened to George? He recalls being knocked unconscious, and a wave of uneasiness hits him. Dream despises not being in control, few things scare him more. It was why he had a difficult time in the Army and living in a house not his own. 

Coughing, he climbs a staircase leading upwards, the floor constantly moving beneath him as he struggles to steady himself. It takes many stairs before he reaches the deck, and the sky above is grey and cloudy, lighter where it meets the horizon of the ocean. The waves are a deep blue, almost grey. Dream turns in a circle, in every direction is the same limitless horizon, the same churning waves and dark sky. 

“Oh good. You’re alive.” 

Dream turns and finds Technoblade, leaning against the railing and looking out at the western horizon with an unreadable expression. The wind blows his hair back, pulling strands from his long braid. His blue and gold dragoon uniform is dirty. Even at Valley Forge he kept it spotless. 

There’s a million questions Dream could have asked, a million obscenities he could have shouted at the major, but the one which leaves his mouth is a heated, “Where’s George?” 

He supposes it’s the only one which matters. 

Techno glances at him. “George? The turncoat?” 

“What other George would I be talking about?” Dream hisses, but he already knows where he is. From Techno’s short answer alone he knows exactly where George is. Techno doesn't even have to voice it. 

“Well, you could be talking about George Washington or King George III.” Techno muses. “But yes, your George is still at Fort James.” 

“Why?” Dream snaps, gripping the railing himself to avoid collapsing entirely, or doing something stupid like swimming westward until he found Fort James. 

“The truth is Dream,” Techno leans back from the railing, turning to face him. “That Washington wants a foothold on Long Island. And despite everything he still wants you as a spy.” 

“I’m done spying.” Dream bites. “The rebellion hasn’t done anything for me.” 

Techno hums. “We’ll cross that bridge down the line. Washington wants Long Island, thinking it’ll be a good morale booster for the poor souls at Valley Forge. He’s gifted me about two-hundred or so men to do so, and they’re all here on this ship.” 

Dream narrows his eyes. “What does this have to do with George?” 

Techno raises an eyebrow. “One track mind, eh? Washington wants you as a spy, he said do whatever I can to keep you with us.” 

“Hitting me in the back of the head and not grabbing George when you clearly had the chance was not the way to go about that.” Dream snaps. He coughs again, this time straight into the sea. 

“If you want to go after this, I understand. But you owe us your life.” 

Dream doesn't look at him, just stares resolutely at the waves smacking the hull. He wipes the blood from his chin. He hates being in debt, being tied down. The only person he owes anything to is George. Dream owes him more than just his life. 

The wind blows his loose hair around his face. His gaze is hard, his walls drawn up. He’s pissed at himself for failing to rescue George, when it was the only thing at all which still mattered. Dream digs his nails into the railing. He had been so, so close. So close he could have touched him. 

A long moment passes before he speaks, and when he does his voice is firm and resolute. “I will help get a foothold on Long Island, but I am not doing it for the Continental Army, or Washington, or congress, or even for you. As soon as I rescue George I am leaving.” 

Techno hums again. “Where will you go?” 

“West.” He says. It’s the only place they  _ can _ go. “Or north into Canada. I’m not sure yet.” 

“The British still control Canada.” Techno points out. “But British control there it’s not like it is here.” 

“Yeah.” Dream runs his finger up and down the railing, soaked with sea spray. “What day is today?” 

“December 31st.” 

Dream gapes. “I was asleep an entire  _ day _ ?” 

“Sapnap hit you pretty hard.” Techno muses, adjusting his hat. “It’s almost evening.” 

Dream bites his cheek so hard he tastes blood. “He hangs tomorrow morning.” 

“I know.” 

He swallows the taste of hot copper in his mouth. “So we attack tomorrow?” 

“Yes.” Techno agrees, picking at a clump of brine. “We will dock early in the morning, near the town. Everyone will be gathered for the hanging, as well as most of the soldiers. We’ll use that.” 

Dream shakes his head. “You’re cutting it close.” 

“Yes.” Techno looks at him, Dream’s hair windswept and messy, his gaze hard. “But we have you.” 

Dream doesn't want to see Sapnap. He dosen’t know what kind of stupid shit he’ll say or do if he sees him, like give him a matching welt on the back of his head. 

So he stays in his cabin. Marinating in his own bitterness as he plays idly with one of his knives, mentally sketching out how he and George will escape. Not having a horse will put them at a disadvantage, and they can’t go back to his house or the ship. He’ll have to try and steal a horse, he reasons as he flicks the blade between his fingers. 

There’s a lot that could go wrong. An entire mountain and ocean of things which could go wrong. Mostly, he’s just afraid. 

He imagines George’s neck snapping again and again. Sapnap could miss the shot on the rope, or someone accidentally leans on the lever, or they’re simply not fast enough. He spins the knife in his hands. Again and again until it is only a flash of silver 

“Dream?” Sapnap says after an indefinite amount of time. He’s standing in the doorway, and he’s so tall that he makes it look small. Dream barely glances at him as the ship rolls on a wave, seawater splashing and seeping through the walls. 

“I don’t wish to speak with you right now.” 

“Oh come on.” Sapnap protests, taking a few steps into the room. “We’ve fought before.” 

Dream glances at him. Dream’s hair was down, and it fell in his face in dirty waves. He looks away, but the sharp look leaves Sapnap feeling like Dream had dug a knife into his shoulder. 

“Not over something like this.”

Sapnap sighs, “Dream-” 

“You could have gotten him.  _ I  _ could have gotten him. Then you hit me over the head. Fucking kidnapped me onto this ship.” 

Sapnap carefully watches the knife in Dream’s hands. “Kidnapped is a strong word.” 

“Friends don’t do shit like that, Sapnap.” 

He sighs. “I was following orders, it was for the greater good.” 

“What happened to brother before country?” Dream snaps, his anger cold as the Chesapeake in winter. 

“Yeah?” Sapnap growls. “You’re leaving your country- your  _ family _ , for some boy.” 

Dream clicks the knife closed, but does not look up. “Do you know why I left Florida?” 

Sapnap frowns, wondering why he was bringing this up now. “Because you and your father didn’t get along. You needed a change.” 

“Why would I travel the entire length of the thirteen colonies because I didn’t get along with my father?” Dream reasons. The circles under his eyes are dark, and the scars over his face are bright and glaring. 

Sapanp opens his mouth to respond, but Dream continues before he can. “I needed to disappear. I went as far from Florida as I could.” 

He frowns. “Did you commit a crime?” 

Dream snorts. “Only in the eyes of the Lord.” 

Sapnap blinks. Once. Twice. Three times before it clicks. His mouth falls open, and then shuts. All he says is, “Oh.” 

The ship rolls over a particularly large wave, and above them the sails unfurl and the ship steers west. “Yeah, ‘oh’.” 

“Is that why you and George…” He doesn't finish it, just gestures vaguely with his hands. 

“No. Yes. It’s complicated.” Dream sighs, kicking at a loose cup that rolls around the floor. “I just can’t see him hurt.” 

The men shout at one another on the deck above as the sky darkens. Above them waves the flag of the Continental Navy- thirteen red and white stripes flapping in the sea wind. 

“After I hit you, he kept saying your name.” Sapnap admits, and Dream finally looks at him. “He called me some pretty awful things.” 

“I’m sure you deserved it.” 

“Yeah. I did.” He laughs dryly and sits down on one of the hammocks across from Dream. It swings under his weight. Sapnap shakes his head. “Wouldn’t stop yelling when I took you away.” 

Dream’s mouth goes dry and he swallows. “Do you think he wanted to see me?” 

Sapnap looks at him, his eyes soft at the edges. “I think so, yeah.” 

Dream rubs his face. “Shit.” 

“Hey, in twenty-four hours this will be over. One way or another.” Sapnap reassures. Seaspray freckles the side of the ship, the furniture shifting as the bow rises and falls on a tall wave. 

“I’m still mad at you.” Dream remarks. 

He sighs. “I know.” 

“I might be mad at you for a long time.” 

Sapnap looks away, running his hands over the brim of his hat. “I understand.” 

“Make it up to me.” Dream says, meeting his eyes. “Don’t miss your shot tomorrow.” 

Around them, the tides shift. They pull the ship west, towards the shore. The globe of the world turns lazily, tossing lives about like sand in the wind. 

Sapnap grins, his smile crooked and lax. It’s the one Dream grew up with, but it feels like goodbye. “I never miss.” 

Dream snorts. He prays it’s true. 

The ship stops about a mile north of the town, and a mile out to sea. The men move in a synced rush, all a part of a larger machine. The boat bobs on the waves, which are significantly calmer this close to shore. The sky is devoid of light, empty of moon and stars. When Dream cranes his neck back it’s like looking into the void. 

He no longer wears the redcoat. Sapnap and a few others had apparently been at his house, and when they found it empty they figured the next logical place was Fort James. Sapnap had grabbed his green coat, his old tricorn, and even his bandana. Dream was still pissed at him, but he managed a grudging, “Thank you.” 

He watches men clamber down a net hooked to the side of the ship before scrambling into a smaller boat beside the ship. It takes a while for all of them to get inside, and the boat nearly tips a handful of times before the lieutenant at the front urges them to row towards the shore. Watching the boats filled with men head towards the shore reminds Dream of the raid on White Hall. For a brief moment he is once again crouched in that ditch, his legs freezing into place and his breath ghosting on the wind. 

Sapnap jostles his shoulder as another rowboat is dropped into the sea. It reminds Dream of the boat he hid in the reeds, the one he used to get to Connecticut and back. It seems like that was a million years ago, another lifetime, another Dream. 

“Ready?” Sapnap asks with a grin. His scarred hands run over the axe on his belt. The men around them rush over the edge, eager to throw themselves into the war. 

“I meant it.” Dream says. “When I said you couldn’t miss.” 

Sapnap looks away, his grin slipping at Dream’s seriousness. Sapnap has always been reckless, almost to a fault. He once told this to Dream, on a restless summer night while they sat on the cliffs, feet hanging over the edge. At a time before there was a Fort James, and English taxes were only a distant concern. 

It was just after his house had caught fire, and they had been sleeping in the Church pews. Dream had just gotten the farm, and although he invited them to stay, Sapnap’s father had sneered at the idea. He never liked Dream very much. Dream always got the sense he could see right through him, straight to the crimes that sent him across the colonies. 

“I have this urge to be reckless.” Sapnap had said, peeling apart an orange. The bandages had only just come off his hands, and Dream couldn’t stop staring at them. The skin was red and twisted, and you could see the exact place where the flames had lay. “Like, if I’m not reckless I won’t have any memories when I’m old. I want to live a life with memories, one worth remembering.” 

Dream had eaten his own orange in silence. It reminded him of Florida. 

Now, they stand on this knife-edge. Sapnap’s hands hold the ropes of the net as he follows Dream down, down into the rocking boat beneath and the maw of the sea. Sapnap has always been reckless, but Dream has always been calculated. Thought about every move before he makes it, weighed the consequences first. They balanced eachother out, the only problem being that Dream’s logic tended to follow the path of,  _ I’ll bleed now, but I have a lifetime to heal it.  _

Look where that had gotten him. 

His feet touch down in the small boat. Dream could feel every wave and current beneath his feet, the shift of the tides and the men inside the boat. It was hard not to think about all the water beneath him, how nobody knew how deep the ocean went, what was lurking beneath the gentle waves. 

Someone nudges him and he clambers to his spot. Techno sits lazily at the front, calling out the rowing commands as if bored. Dream coughs into his handkerchief, relieved to find that it isn’t splattered in blood. Perhaps a day of rest and warmth had done him some good. 

The boat crawls towards the shore, the crooked trees a dark spot against the inky night. The air around them is so cold that Dream swears he can feel the moisture on his eyelashes freezing and his breath turn to ice crystals in the winter wind. 

When the boat hits the shore with a dull thunk, most of the men scramble out, their boots splashing in the frigid ocean. A few Navy men stay behind to take it back to the other ship. Dream doesn't miss their pitying stares as he grabs his rifle from beneath the bench. 

Dream moves between the men until he is beside Techno, who is studying a map by the thinnest pocket of lantern light imaginable. His eyebrows are creased in thought as he turns the map every which way.   
Dream almost laughs. “Do you need help?” 

“No.” Techno snaps as the boats start to move back towards the ship. The men are crouched and quiet, eyes trained on Techno. 

“We’re here, right?” He asks, jabbing to a point on the map. 

“Uh, no. We’re about,” Dream points to a spot a little ways north. “Here.” 

“I see. And this is we’re we are trying to reach?” 

“Yes.” 

“Excellent.” Techno snaps the map closed and towards his men. “Men, follow me.” 

Dream looks over at Sapnap, who only shrugs before gathering his weapons and following. Dream rubs the bridge of his nose before pulling his bandana up to hide his face. 

A little ways down, the men split into three groups. The largest move to surround Fort James, just as the sun begins to creep over the horizon. The second group went towards the Church, another key point the British were inclined to hold onto, and the third and smallest group hid just beyond the edge of town. Most of them wore civilian clothes, with plans to hide amongst the crowds until the hanging. Their job was to save George, and hopefully take out some of the officers and Schlatt. Techno had composed the third group of the best of the best, his most ruthless men. Dream watches as Sapnap and a few others haggle one of their small canons onto the town square in the wavering nightlight. 

The rising sun reveals the gallows, casting a long shadow over the cobblestones. The beambs holding it together are thin and ghostly, like skeletons. 

The men point the canon towards the gallows, which makes Dream more than a little anxious but he keeps his mouth shut as he nervously plays with the knife again. Techno gives him a long look, but doesn't say anything. The noose sways in the wind. 

“He’s gonna kill me if this doesn't work.” Dream mutters as Sapnap throws a blanket over the canon. It’s a pretty poor disguise, but hopefully the crowds will cover it up. 

“How will he kill you if he’s dead?” Techno points out, chewing on a piece of bread. 

“He’ll haunt me until I kill myself or something.” Dream reasons. “He’s stubborn.” 

Techno watches as Sapnap scurries over to the belltower that looms over the square. “Hmm. I see.” He mutters as the other men hide with them. Now all that there is left to do is wait. Dream spins the knife. Again and again. 

The sun slowly climbs into the sky, and it takes even longer for the townspeople to venture out of their houses, most of them nursing hangovers from New Year’s celebrations coupled with a strong reluctance to step into the cold morning. 

Techno flicks open his pocket watch before closing it with a sigh. Dream wears callouses into his hands, over and over again. The sun rises higher, and the crowd slowly fills the square. The men trickle out of their hiding spaces, joining the masses. Dream taps his foot, spins the knife. 

The square is filled by late morning, as the weary faces of the town look up at the gallows in varying shades of excitement. Redcoats stand amongst them and against the walls, faces grim. 

Techno opens his pocket watch again, shaking his head. “Leave it to the lobsterbacks to be punctual.” 

It feels like years before the carriage finally pulls up, it’s windows blocked out by curtains. A soldier opens the door, and out steps the major, followed closely by Schlatt and the executioner, a large man with a dark mask pulled over his head. 

Techno whistles. “They’re pulling out everything for this.” 

“Schlatt has been raving for years about catching spies.” Dream mumbles, voice hard. “He’s got his chance and he’s gonna make a show about it. Make an impact.” 

Techno nods, the morning sun catching in his pink hair. 

The executioner climbs the stairs of the gallows, gripping the lever that will drop the trap door. Dream swallows, his foot tapping incessantly. 

Eventually, another wagon comes to a stop beside the carriage. Pulled by the saddest looking horse Dream has ever seen, driven by two soldiers. In the back is a small figure, his head stooped and arms tied behind his back. Dream’s stomach twists so hard he thinks he might vomit as the soldiers drag George out. The crowd jeers. 

Dream takes a step forward, but Techno yanks him back and hisses, “Not yet.” 

George is thin. He had always been small, but now he just looks tiny, like one good breeze could topple him. They had stripped him of his uniform, and now all he wore was a loose white hunter’s shirt tucked into dark pants. The buckles on his shoes gleamed in the sunlight as he was marched forward, a bruise forming over his blue eye. 

Dream doesn't miss the sneer Schlatt sends George as he walks past. Schlatt must say something to him because George glares darkly, with enough heat that Dream can feel it from his spot across the square. 

George climbs the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the quiet morning. The major unfurls a piece of parchment. He clears his throat before he reads, “In order to effect a timely halt to the deteriorating conditions and to ensure the common good, a state of emergency has been declared by myself, duly appointed representative of His Majesty the King.” 

George steps on the trapdoor. 

“By decree according to the Martial Law, the following statues have been temporarily amended; right to assembly, suspended.” The noose is pushed over George’s head, and Dream slips into the crowd. 

“Right to habeas corpus, suspended. Right to legal counsel, suspended. Right to a verdict of jury by peers, suspended.” 

Dream slides through the crowd, keeping his head low. The noose tightens. 

“All persons convicted of treason, or aiding a rebel, or associating with persons connected with the rebellion, shall be sentenced to hang by the neck until dead.” 

The crowd shifts uncomfortably, speaking in low whispers. Loyalists, all of them. The major snaps the parchment closed, loud enough that it echoes through the quiet square. 

The major directs his attention to George. Wilbur stands beside him, eyes trained to the ground, hat pulled low over his eyes. 

With a tight voice the major asks, “Does the accused have any last words?” 

The executioner's fingers wrap around the lever, his face unreadable. Dream looks up, eyes flashing. George’s gaze meets his, and his mouth falls open. Something like hope flashes through his exhausted eyes. 

The world rocks beneath Dream’s feet, like he’s back on the boat. The globe stops spinning, the waves stop crashing, and the wind quiets. It settles around him, until it is only him and George, the only thing in the entire ghastly world which matters. 

“What we obtain too cheap,” George says, voice rough and scratchy, his eyes on Dream’s. “We esteem too lightly. It is dearness only that gives everything its value.” 

The crowd erupts into whispers, even a few shouts. They all recognise it, although they shouldn’t. The soldiers yell for quiet, for peace. There are a million interpretations to the words, but Dream knows what he means. It’s like the underlined passage, an apology and a promise- where you go I will follow. You are dear to me. 

Dream smiles, and disappears once more. Swallowed by the crushing crowd. 

“Quiet!” The major shouts. “Quiet! Thank you, George.” He glances at the executioner and nods. “Executioner, if you will.” 

The executioner nods, fingers wrapping around the dark lever. Schlatt grins, the major ducks his eyes. A tear slips down Wilbur’s cheek, splashing onto the cobblestones. 

Before the lever can be pulled, the canon explodes, throwing the crowd aside. The cannonball lands squarely in the school behind the gallows- the town’s other munitions room. It goes up in a ball of flame, the explosion rocking the ground. At the same moment, Sapnap fires. The shot shatters the executioner's hand, but not the rope. 

The crowd screams as soldiers level their guns at the men beside the cannon. But more rebels appear, slicing throats and putting bullets through redcoats. 

Sapnap swings down from the tower on a rope, always one for dramatics, as the executioner clutches his ruined hand to his chest, reaching for his sword. Sapnap lands neatly on the gallows, grin wide. 

“Hey, Georgie.” He jeers, slipping his axe from his belt and spinning it. “Sorry I missed.” 

The executioner lunges towards Sapnap, and he catches the sword with his axe in the place the handle meets the blade. He twists downward and swings. 

The executioner steps back, and between them lays the lever. 

“Oh Christ be careful.” George cries, stepping back with what little room he has, the rope following. 

The executioner lunges for the lever, but Sapnap throws his axe, handle spinning over the blade. It buries itself squarely in the man’s chest. The giant stumbles back, clutching his chest. George kicks out, throwing him off the gallows. Around them the battle rings, civilians scatter. Gunfire can be heard from the direction of the church and Fort James. 

Sapnap grins. “See Georgie,” he leans back, “I promised I’d save you.” 

He leans back right onto the lever. George barely has time to scream before the floor beneath his feet is gone and he is falling-

Straight into Dream’s arms. 

“Gotcha!” 

Dream holds him by his waist, one arm in a place George would rather not think about. Dream wobbles slightly, but grins up at him. His bandana was pulled down, revealing his scarred face and crooked smile. George looks down at him, his arms behind his back as Dream struggles to balance them. 

“You’re quite punctual, aren’t you?” 

Dream’s smile widens. He adjusts his arm.“Only for you.” 

“Could you move your arm?”

“And let you fall? We’re acquaintances, right?” 

“Judging by where your hand is I believe we are more than just acquaintances.” 

Dream laughs. He can’t remember the last time he laughed, but he could burst with it. 

“Well would you look at this.” A voice sneers, and they both turn to find Schlatt with a gun pointed at them. The smile slips from Dream’s face, while the one on Schlatt’s grows. 

Schlatt looks between them. “Isn’t this a funny little reunion? Let’s say gentlemen, hypothetically of course, if I were to shoot the coward,” he points his gun towards Dream, and his blood runs cold. George shakes in his hands. “The turncoat hangs. How about that? Two for the price of one?” 

“Don’t let go.” George whispers. 

Schlatt cocks the gun, and Dream braces himself. His grip tightens around George as he hisses, “Wouldn’t dream of it, George.” 

The boom of a gun makes both of them flinch back, Dream wobbling dangerously. Schlatt collapses on the dirt like a puppet whose strings had been severed. Red spills from his chest as Wilbur runs over, cheeks red and breathless. 

“Sorry about that.” He says. “Cut it a bit close there.” 

George blinks. “You’re helping us?” 

“You’re too pretty to die, George.” Wilbur snaps, reloading the pistol. He nods his head at Dream. “I don’t really give a shit about the cabbage farmer.” 

“Hey!” 

Wilbur aims the pistol and shoots the rope. Dream almost loses his balance without it, but he grins and lowers George to the ground. George doesn't step away. 

“Thanks, Soot.” Dream calls, not looking away from George. 

“No problem.” He blows on the pistol, reloading it once more. “You guys need to get out of here.” 

Dream glances at him and pulls up his bandana. “Do you have a horse?” 

“There’s some just beyond the tavern.” Wilbur cocks his head in the direction as Dream cuts the rope on George’s hands. “If you go now they won’t catch you.” 

“Thank you.” Dream repeats, carefully cutting the thick rope from George’s neck. 

“What about you?” George asks, glancing at Wilbur. He holds very still as Dream works. “What are you going to do?” 

“I’m going to see about taking a trip to New York and pardoning Eret.” He explains, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “After that I’ll probably go back to England. Had enough of this blasted continent.” 

George smiles softly as the rope falls away. “Thank you, Wilbur. I mean it.” 

“Of course. Now get going.” He says pushing them out from under the gallows. “I’ll be seeing you?” 

“Of course.” George replies, rubbing his neck as Dream gives him a fond look. 

Wilbur pushes them again, but he’s smiling. The battle is still raging. “Go!” 

Dream grabs George’s arm, and the two of them take off. They duck through the raging battle. For a moment Sapnap appears at their side, pushing back redcoats, but he is gone just as soon. 

They make it to the tavern, both out of breath as they swing onto horses. The air smells of gunpowder and smoke.

“Dream, where are we going?” George asks, cutting the rope tying down the horse with a knife Dream leant him. 

“Anywhere you want.” Dream replies, grasping the reins. In the distance, a cannon explodes once more. 

George looks around a moment. There is a mark on his neck from the rope, and Dream’s stomach churns. “Let’s go north.” 

“To Canada?” Dream laughs. “It’ll be cold! We’ll have to learn French!” 

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m still mad at you.” George hisses. A gunshot lands between their feet, and a few hundred feet away a redcoat staggers towards them. Dream is pretty sure it isn’t Wilbur. 

“We’ll figure it out.” Dream says quickly, spurring the horse onwards as George does the same.  _ Together  _ rings in the air between them, not said but not unknown. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:   
> -Pretty small detail, but back then only the really poor and slaves wore pants. Most men wore britches, so giving George pants was kind of insulting.   
> -Yes, that was another Thomas Paine quote George spewed lmao  
> -Hangings and executions were a common occurrence back then, and families would “make a day” of going to see the executions. I’m really glad that went out of a style haha


	10. Chapter X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys sm for reading and supporting this fic it means the world to me and I never expected it to get as much attention as it did! I especially want to thank Allegra for being the best beta reader I could ever ask for and helping me so much with this fic. Ily!!

The horses tear through the woods, kicking up a flood of snow in their wake. Both Dream and George lay flat against their backs, Dream a few paces ahead to guide them. He wills his horse to go faster and further, despite the fresh snow they are forcing themselves over. The pop of musket fire fades into the background, swallowed by the forest. 

Dream leads them to his farm. George looks around worriedly as they guide the horses to a stop just outside the front door. As they dismount George quietly asks, “Is this a good idea?” 

“I do not know what is going to happen to us next.” Dream ties his horse to a fence, George following even as his eyes take in the surrounding woods, watching for movement. “But I do know that we are not going to get far with what we have now.” 

George exhales, his breath misting in the winter air before it fades. “I’ll stay out and watch. You’ll be quick, right?” 

Dream nods, resisting the urge to grab his hands and kiss them. “Of course. Shout if you need me, okay?” 

George agrees before turning around to watch the woods, eyes narrowed as Dream disappears into the house. 

Dream moves quickly, adrenaline still lacing through his veins and nerves like lightning. He grabs two bags, stuffing each with extra clothes, food, and munitions. He finds a spare pair of gaiters, a tricorn, and an extra jacket for George, who has to be freezing in his thin shirt and pants. 

As he is stuffing food into the saddlebags, he finds a note. Frowning, he picks it up. It was written in cursive so precise that it takes him a few tries to read it. It was a letter from Nikki, explaining that she was going to live with an old friend in northern Massachusetts, and that she had taken Patches with her. She offered them a place to stay, if they needed. 

Smiling softly, Dream shoves the note into his pocket before leaving. He leaves the house, weighed down by the weight of their things. He half-expects to find George gone when he comes back. He wouldn’t blame him, not really. They hadn’t left off on the best foot the last time they’d seen each other. Dream knew the conversation was coming, it hung in the rushing air between them. But for now, they had to worry about getting away. 

Dream is half-amazed when he steps outside and George is still there, arms crossed over his shivering chest as he leans against his horse, staring in the direction of the still raging battle. He turns when Dream shuffles over, wordlessly helping him attach the saddle bags. 

“What’s the coat for?” George asks when Dream hands him the old brown coat, made mostly of wool. 

“It’s for you.” He says awkwardly. “Oh, and this.” He plops the tricorn on George’s head, and it slips down past his eyes. George laughs, pushing the hat back. Dream melts a little. 

“Thank you.” George says, slipping on the coat. It practically swallows him, and Dream tries not to laugh. “We should get going.” 

Dream nods, although he doesn't look away. George just smiles again, before climbing onto the back of his horse. Shaking his head, Dream copies his movements. It doesn't take long before the forest devours them again, and Dream’s farm disappears for the final time. 

They move quickly, keeping the horses at a steady gait. Neither say anything for a long time, anxious of being caught. Dream doesn't miss how frequently George looks behind them towards the direction of the battle. Dream’s chest aches. A year ago, George wasn’t this jumpy. He can’t help but blame himself for it. 

The sun stretches across the sky, before making its way down. They avoid town, and it isn’t until they are well past New York City that at long last Dream says, “I think we can rest.” 

George doesn't bother protesting, although they might as well be in the middle of nowhere. Dream watches him slide off the exhausted horse, legs boneless. 

“Are we going to be frontiersmen?” George questions, rubbing his eyes as Dream untangles his foot from the straps of the saddle. 

“Actually, Nikki offered us a place in Massachusetts. We can probably stay there for a few days, plan out what we want to do next.” Dream explains, finally freeing his foot. The adrenaline had long since drained away, and he was so tired that all he wanted to do was collapse in the snow and never wake up again. George looked to be about five seconds away from doing the same. 

George yawns. “I’ll water the horses if you make a shelter?” 

“Oh sure, leave the hard task to me.” Dream quips, but he’s already poking through the snow and gathering enough sticks to make a lean-to for the night. 

“You were not the one who was almost hanged today!” George calls back, leading the horses downhill towards a stream they had hopped over earlier. 

Dream is pretty sure he’d do anything for George if he asked. He would pluck him a star from the sky, or cross the continent and the Atlantic ocean for him. Instead, Dream just watches him go, listening carefully to George’s retreating footsteps. The falling sun paints the sky liquid pink, once again the anxious fear bleeds through him, the one that tells him George will leave. 

But George doesn't leave. He comes back fifteen minutes later, swallowed by Dream’s massive coat as he pulls the two horses behind him. 

“You came back.” Dream says dumbly, arms filled with sticks. 

George frowns. “Of course I came back, Dream. Where do you honestly expect me to go?” 

“I thought you would run away.” Dream admits, voice quiet in that soft tone he only uses around George. 

George blinks at him like he had actually gone mad. “I don’t want to leave you, Dream.” 

Dream sets the bundle of wood down with the others. He takes a deep breath. So they were going to talk about this. About everything. He isn’t really sure where to start, there’s an ocean of things he needs to apologize for, but he begins with, “I left you, George. I  _ abandoned _ you.” 

“Only after I told you to.” He counters, and he says it like he has thought long and hard about what happened. “I was upset. Devastated really, but I realize that it wasn’t your fault those two kids died. Blaming you and solely you for that was unfair.” 

“I didn’t tell you about it, George.” He presses. “That’s what the problem was. I didn’t trust you enough to tell you.” 

“I understand why you didn’t.” George says. 

Dream’s gaze finally snaps back to him. The pink light makes George glow. “What?” 

George pushes the hat back again and sighs. “I get it, Dream. You couldn’t risk the British finding out about it, and I understand that I was a risk.” 

Dream’s mouth falls open. Before he can think about it, he reaches out and grabs George’s hands. Both of their hands are dry and cracked, bleeding in places. George’s are small in his, wrists rubbed raw. “I should have taken that risk, George. You’re a risk I’m willing to take.” 

“Is that why you came back?”

“I-” Dream opens his mouth to start down one tangent, before deciding it wasn’t what he wanted to say. He swallows, collecting his thoughts as the light leaches from the winter sky. 

“I’ve always advocated for liberty and the right to self-govern. I don’t believe in monarchs, in leaders and laws that are never questioned. I don’t believe in what Britain has done to the world. I think I will always believe that, and my intentions will always be with the patriots.” 

George looks like he wants to say something, but Dream continues. He tightens his hold on George’s hands, and George grips back. His heart flutters. 

“But, I guess, all that time ago when I said you were my cause, I meant it.” He explains, tripping over his words. “I thought I could have both, but this past year I spent all my time with the Continental Army, and I didn’t feel that I gained anything from my service, other than new scars. I didn’t feel satisfied the way I thought fighting for the cause would satisfy me. Day after day I kept thinking about you, and when the time came where I had to choose-” he cuts himself off with a dry laugh, still heavy with pneumonia. “I didn’t have to think very hard about it.” 

“You left the rebels?” George repeats, although he already knows this. His voice goes quiet. “For me?” 

Dream nods. “Of course, George.” 

“I thought,” he pauses, “I thought they let you go, or that we’d go back to the army eventually.” 

Dream shakes his head, but smiles softly. “I can’t go back. I’m a deserter. Coward. Turncoat. Whatever word you want to use.” 

George just stares at him, eyes wide as the moon in the fading light. The sunset turns the snow pink, and it catches the light in George’s brown eye. Dream’s smile grows. He can see the moment the realization hits George, crashing over him like an ocean wave. Dream had chosen him over everything else. 

Before Dream can even blink, George is ripping his hands away from Dream’s and grabbing the sides of his face, yanking him down. Their lips meet and Dream’s mind goes blank. 

It’s not perfect. Their hats crash together and their noses bump. It takes Dream’s mind, normally working at a speed faster than a cannon, a moment to catch up with what is happening. He can’t process the feeling of George’s lips against his, the way it sets every nerve inside him alight. Dream stands there, stupid and unmoving. Disbelieving. 

George begins to pull away, regret and fear making his shoulders stiffen at Dream’s lack of response. 

When his mind finally catches up with his body, Dream tugs him back, their teeth clashing. George kisses with ferocity and desperation, the sort that makes Dream’s head spin and his eyebrows furrow. George’s hands reach past his cheeks and into his hair, pushing off his hat. Dream audibly sighs, and George pulls him even closer. His grip on George’s face is bruising. Dream wants to tell him to slow down, that they have all the time in the world now, but he would be lying if he wasn’t just as desperate. There was a sour fear that lay between the two of them, that the other would disappear again, or some greater force would yank them apart. 

Dream pulls back, resting his forehead against George’s. Both of them are out of breath, but neither move their hands. George’s face is small in his grasp. Dream’s thumb runs along his chin, settles on his lip. George’s eyes flicker up to his, and he surges forward again. Dream smiles against his lips. George’s fingers tangle deeper into his hair, bruising against his scalp and yanking gently. Dream sighs, and George deepens the kiss. 

He doesn't know how long it lasts, only when they pull away for the last time that George’s lips are red and Dream’s hair is a mess. The sun has almost set completely, the sky the watery-grey color that comes in the last minutes of dusk. Dream’s thumb runs over George’s bottom lip before he finally pulls back, their breaths lingering between them. 

“I didn’t know you were,” George pauses, gesturing vaguely. Dream gets it. There’s no word for what they are, because history will never mention them. There’s no word for what they are in the dictionary. 

“I am.” Dream says, stressing his words by squeezing George’s hands. He knows the word for  _ love  _ is in the dictionary, and he thinks that might be enough. But a single word feels lackluster in comparison to what he feels. 

George nods, rubbing Dream’s cracked hands with his thumbs. He looks close to tears, and Dream isn’t sure what he would do if he saw George cry. So instead he kisses the back of his hand and whispers, “Help me set up the lean-to?” 

George nods, although he seems just as reluctant as Dream to step apart and let go of his hand. They don’t stray far from one another as they gather sticks and logs, Dream occasionally snapping one off a tree. 

It takes them about an hour to set up the lean-to, and it’s barely big enough for George, much less Dream. But both of them are too tired to fix it. As stars flicker to life across the sky and the yellow crescent moon rises in the eastern sky, they crawl into the small shelter together. They lay facing one another, legs tangled under a thin blanket. Dream throws his arm across George’s shoulders, dragging him closer. George clings to one of Dream’s hands, and they lean into each other against the biting cold. 

At some point Dream’s eyes water, tears slipping down his cheeks. His back shakes. Neither say anything. George just reaches out and wipes them away in the darkness. It only makes Dream cry harder, overwhelmed by everything, by George in his arms and wiping away his tears. He can’t remember the last time he cried. He thinks it was when he left George. 

“Shhh.” George mumbles. “I’m here.” 

They lay like that, turned towards one another in the middle of nowhere. The trees whisper in the wind, the stars shining above. George’s calloused hands wipe away each one of his tears, and Dream pulls him closer. 

Over the next few weeks, they rarely leave one another’s side. They stick mostly to the thick woods, moving away from the coast. Together they brace against snowstorms, huddled together for warmth. George gets frostbite on his cheeks a week into their journey, and Dream panics. He gives George his bandana to keep his face out of the wind, and presses tin cups of heated water against his cheeks, and tries to kiss the frostbite away. It makes George giggle, and then he usually ends up grabbing Dream’s face and trying to kiss away his freckles. 

Slowly, Dream regains the strength he lost at Valley Forge. Although neither of them are eating particularly well, George is no longer as hallowed as he was when Dream caught him at the gallows. The marks on his wrists and neck fade, eased away by the snow. 

One night, shortly after they had crossed the border into Massachusetts, Dream risked lighting a fire. They hadn’t seen any sign of civilization in days, and the night was bitterly cold. It took him a while to get a spark going, they had long since used up their matches and flint was hard to come by. 

Dream pushes a stick into another pile of sticks, and uses a piece of twine to spin it. 

“That isn’t going to work.” George says, offering absolutely no help or anything of value. 

“Why don’t you do it then.” Dream snaps. “You’re the one who wanted a fire.” 

“The sticks are too wet from the snow.” He points out, leaning against Dream’s side. Dream relaxes against him, the way he always does around George’s touch. 

“It’s going to work.” Dream mutters, spinning the twine faster. “I’ve done this before.” 

George watches quietly as Dream heroically tries to coax a spark. He knows there is no use in trying to persuade Dream to give it up, once he sets his mind to something he could be horribly, obsessively determined. 

“We should go into a town.” He says after a few more minutes, the moon rising. “Get more food and matches.” 

“We’re almost to Nikki’s.” Dream gives up with the twine and uses his own hands to spin the stick. “We shouldn’t risk it.” 

George rests his head against his shoulder and Dream presses a kiss into his dark hair before continuing. George just hums quietly in response. 

It was funny, the way the last two weeks had been some of the best of Dream’s life. Tucked far away from the prying eyes of civilization, he and George were free to lean on one another whenever they pleased, or grasp onto each other's hands. They were both giddy with it, rarely leaving one another’s side. Dream had already memorized the wide expanse of George’s skin and the way his heart beat under his palm. It was so different from the tension that had run between them like a livewire a year ago, that Dream could scarcely believe it. He could scarcely believe the way George craved his attention just as much as Dream craved his. 

A tiny plume of smoke curls from the kindling. Dream’s eyes light up, and in the next moment the flame is eating the grass and the twigs, springing to life. Dream leans back, yelling in triumph. George cheers beside him, Dream ruffling his hair. 

“I told you I would do it!”

“I never doubted you.” George says, trying to hide his smile. 

“Yes you did! Ten minutes ago you were speaking about how  _ pointless  _ it was and ‘ _ Oh Dream, we should just purchase matches _ .’” He does a horrid impression of George’s accent, the same one he used to get inside Fort James. 

George snorts. “I don’t sound like that.” 

“ _ I don’t sound like that _ .” He mocks, smiling. 

George grabs a handful of snow and pushes it into Dream’s face, laughing as it drips off his nose. 

Dream grabs an even bigger handful, one that burns his hand, and shoves it down the bag of George’s coat. 

“Dream! That wasn’t fair!” 

Wheezing with laughter, Dream asks, “Oh, so it’s only fair when you do it?” 

“Yes!” 

Dream wheezes, tackling George into the snow. They’re both shaking with laughter, clinging to each other. Dream starts to think that everything will truly be okay. 

It takes them another week to find Nikki’s house, mostly because they kept getting lost due to Dream’s horrible sense of direction, until he finally relented and passed the map to George, who found the house in about a day. 

It was small. A wooden cabin with about three rooms, buried deep in the folds of the Massachusetts woods. Outside there were pigs and chickens, and a single horse in a stall. Nikki stepped out as they approached, smiling. 

“You guys found it!” She cheered, stepping forward to help with the horses. “I was beginning to worry.” 

“Blame Dream.” George says, sliding off the horse. “He can’t read a map.” 

“I got us most of the way here!” 

“You literally just went north.” 

“Well, I got us here  _ alive _ . Remember that bear, George? It would have eaten you.” 

George rolls his eyes. “The bear was at least a hundred yards away. It didn’t even bother with us.” 

“I still saved you!” 

“Are these the fugitives you were talking about?” Interrupts a woman leaning against the door. Her hair was down, and fell around her shoulders in large curls. Dream and George turn towards her as Nikki finishes putting up the horses. 

“Yes!” Nikki calls. 

“I thought they died.” 

“Don’t mind Puffy.” Nikki tells them quietly. “She’s just suspicious.” 

Dream nods in understanding just as a grey blur races past Puffy and into the yard. His smile widens as he bends down to scoop up his cat. He holds her against his chest as George reaches over to scratch her ear. She seems surprised to see him. 

“You brought her with you?” Dream asks incredulously. 

“Of course.” Nikki guides them towards the house. “I couldn’t leave her in Valley Forge.” 

Dream shivers at the thought, shaking the snow from his boots as he enters the house. Both him and George sigh in relief as they enter, neither can remember the last time they’d been in a warm building. 

Patches wriggles out from his arms, disappearing into another room. Beside him, George sighs again. Dream smiles fondly. 

“Did you hear the big news?” Puffy asks them, stoking the fireplace. 

Dream and George glance at each other before looking back. “What news?” George asks. 

“About France?” Puffy looks between them, like she can’t believe they don’t know. As if they hadn’t been on the fringe of civilization for the past month. 

“What about France?” Dream asks, brows furrowed in thought. 

“Last week America and France signed the Treaty of Alliance.” Nikki explains patiently. “They’re going to help us against Britain.” 

Dream’s mouth falls open, eyes wide. “Really?” 

He couldn’t wrap his mind around it- certainly there had been rumors for quite some time, that congress was attempting to sway France to help them. For so long, the American fighting forces had been too weak for France to even bat an eye at. The third largest empire in the world, behind only Britain and Spain, and now they were going to help their small, ragtag army confined to a small field in the Pennsylvania countryside? 

“It’s true, the ponyboy brought us a paper yesterday.” She slides a newspaper across the table. George picks it up, wide-eyes drinking in the news. 

“The French?” Dream repeats, unable to believe it. Maybe it wasn’t so hard to believe. It would be hard to find two nations that hated each other more than the British and French. 

George hands him the paper, smiling. “This war,” he says carefully, “It won’t be on for much longer.” 

That night they lay on a straw mattress in the middle of the floor, quilts thrown over their shoulders. A dying fire lay in the fireplace, and Dream smiled at George who gazed at him sleepily. Beneath the quilts their legs were tangled together, impossible to tell where one stopped and the other began. The lines between them seemed to blur. Dream couldn’t tell if the pulse he felt was his own or George’s. 

He couldn’t help but think of how lucky they were. He wonders what his life would have been like had George never been quartered in his house, if he had never helped Eret in New York and been forced to come to Long Island. He wonders what could have been if Nikki hadn’t told him about the hanging, or if Dream had been a second too late to catch George. 

They were lucky they had found one another, that they had survived. Dream never thought he would find another person like him, nevertheless find someone who he loved so ardently, with no qualms or doubt. He loved him without end. 

“The war…” George whispers into the quiet. 

“Shhh.” Dream mutters, George’s hand against his lips. “Enough about the war.” 

“It brought us together, you know.” George continues. Dream lets him. Clearly there was something weighing on him. “Without this war I never would have met you. We’re an ocean apart.” 

Dream smiles softly. “I would have found you. I would have found you in Long Island, in London, in India or China, or whatever corner of the world you were born into.” 

George covers his face. “You can’t just say that.” 

“Well I did.” 

He laughs. “You’re entirely too much.” 

One of the logs in the fire crumples, sending up a flare of sparks. Dream pulls George’s hands from his face, kissing him. It’s so different from their first, which had been a concatenation of every lingering glance and heated stare, as well as the year spent apart, coupled with the threat of George’s neck snapping. But this kiss is slow, languid even. Neither in any hurry. 

When they pull apart, Dream tugs him close. He doesn't think he will ever get tired of the way George fits against him, like they were made for it. The fire dies, and Dream’s eyes are just beginning to slip shut as exhaustion pulls at his limbs. 

“What will happen to us next?” George mumbles against his neck. Dream startles slightly. He thought George had fallen asleep. 

“We will go wherever you want.” 

George thinks for a moment. “West.” 

“I thought you said north?” 

“I want to go beyond the ragged edge of the world. Fall of the map.” 

“Do you want to settle?” Dream asks. 

“No. Not yet. We could be fur trappers. Or merchants, or explorers. When we’re old and tired we can settle, and when the war is done. We’ll buy a plot of land and cabbage seeds until it’s all we see.” 

Dream runs his fingers through George’s hair, sighing at the thought. “Cabbages?” 

“Mhm. You know, when you were gone, I couldn’t even look at a cabbage.” George explains. “It made me want to cry.” 

Dream’s heart twists in his chest. “Why is that?” 

“It reminded me of you.” He admits. “And how you were gone. The cabbage might have come from your field, your hands. It was all I had.” 

“Well, now you have all of me.” 

George smiles against his chest, and Dream sort of wonders when a cabbage and a farm became an allegory for love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> -Back then there were terms for gay people, but most people saw it as a practice not an identity. Although there were terms for wlw back then such as sapphism and lesbianism, the only word for a mlm (from my research at least) was sodomite which is,,, not the best word. That’s why Dream says there’s no words for what they are, because the term homosexual wasn’t used until the 19th century.  
> -A ponyboy was someone who delivered mail and newspapers on horseback  
> -George saying the war would be over soon wasn’t technically correct, the war officially ended on September 3rd, 1783 which was about five years after the story ends  
> -On February 6th, 1778 France and America signed the Treaty of Alliance, and in March the British would officially declare war on France. This was a huge turning point in the war, and it secured that America would be recognized as an independent nation. 
> 
> Thank you guys so, so much for reading this fic and sticking with me. I really appreciate all of you!! This is the last chapter, but I plan on writing more fics for this fandom so keep an eye out for that (I’ve already started working on the next haha). Thank you guys again, and if you tend to be more of a lurker I encourage you to comment! I’ll do my best to reply to all the comments, ily guys sm you mean the world to me :)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! comments and kudos are greatly appreciated :)


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